The Project Gutenberg EBook of HorsesNine, by Sewell Ford

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Title: Horses NineStories of Harness and Saddle

Author: Sewell Ford

Release Date: November 16, 2006 [EBook#19824]

Language: English

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HORSES NINE ***

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By one desperate leap he shook himself clear. (Page 263.)

HORSES NINE

STORIES OF HARNESSAND SADDLE

BYSEWELL FORD

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORKCHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

1905

Copyright, 1903, byCHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

Published, March, 1903

TROW DIRECTORYPRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY

NEW YORK

ContentsSKIPPER

Being the Biography of a Blue-Ribboner

CALICO

Who Travelled with a Round Top

OLD SILVERA Story of the Gray Horse Truck

BLUE BLAZES

And the Marring of Him

CHIEFTAINA Story of the Heavy DraughtService

BARNACLES

Who Mutinied for Good Cause BLACK EAGLE

Who Once Ruled the Ranges

BONFIREBroken for the House of Jerry

PASHA

The Son of Selim

IllustrationsBy Frederic Dorr Steele and L. Maynard

Dixon

By one desperate leap he shook himself clear. (Page 263.)

There were many heavy wagons.For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart.He would do his best to steady them down to the work.Then let him snake a truck down West Street."Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the man on the ground.Mr. Dave kept his seat in the saddle more by force ofmuscular habit than anything else.

SKIPPER

BEING THE BIOGRAPHYOF A BLUE-RIBBONER

At the age of six Skipper went on theforce. Clean of limb and sound of wind hewas, with not a blemish from the tip of hisblack tail to the end of his crinklyforelock. He had been broken to saddle bya Green Mountain boy who knew more ofhorse nature than of the trashy things writin books. He gave Skipper kind words andan occasional friendly pat on the flank. So

Skipper's disposition was sweet and hisnature a trusting one.

This is why Skipper learned so soon theways of the city. The first time he saw oneof those little wheeled houses, allwindows and full of people, come rushingdown the street with a fearful whirr andclank of bell, he wanted to bolt. But theman on his back spoke in an easy, calmvoice, saying, "So-o-o! There, me b'y.Aisy wid ye. So-o-o!" which wasexcellent advice, for the queer contrivancewhizzed by and did him no harm. In aweek he could watch one without evenpricking up his ears.

It was strange work Skipper had beenbrought to the city to do. As a colt he hadseen horses dragging ploughs, pulling big

loads of hay, and hitched to many kinds ofvehicles. He himself had drawn a lightbuggy and thought it good fun, though youdid have to keep your heels down and trotinstead of canter. He had liked best tolope off with the boy on his back, down tothe Corners, where the store was.

But here there were no ploughs, nor hay-carts, nor mowing-machines. There weremany heavy wagons, it was true, but thesewere all drawn by stocky Percherons andbig Western grays or stout Canada blackswho seemed fully equal to the task.

Also there were carriages—my, whatshiny carriages! And what smart, sleek-looking horses drew them! And how highthey did hold their heads and how they didthrow their feet about—just as if they

were dancing on eggs.

"Proud, stuck-up things," thought Skipper.

It was clear that none of this work was forhim. Early on the first morning of hisservice men in brass-buttoned blue coatscame to the stable to feed and rub downthe horses. Skipper's man had two names.One was Officer Martin; at least that wasthe one to which he answered when theman with the cap called the roll beforethey rode out for duty. The other name was"Reddy." That was what the rest of themen in blue coats called him. Skippernoticed that he had red hair and concludedthat "Reddy" must be his real name.

As for Skipper's name, it was written onthe tag tied to the halter which he wore

when he came to the city. Skipper heardhim read it. The boy on the farm had donethat, and Skipper was glad, for he likedthe name.

There was much to learn in those first fewweeks, and Skipper learned it quickly. Hecame to know that at inspection, whichbegan the day, you must stand with yournose just on a line with that of the horse oneither side. If you didn't you felt the bit orthe spurs. He mastered the meaning of"right dress," "left dress," "forward,""fours right," and a lot of other things.Some of them were very strange.

There were many heavy wagons.

Now on the farm they had said, "Whoa,boy," and "Gid a-a-ap." Here they said,"Halt" and "Forward!" But "Reddy" usednone of these terms. He pressed with hisknees on your withers, loosened the reins,and made a queer little chirrup when hewanted you to gallop. He let you knowwhen he wanted you to stop, by thelightest pressure on the bit.

It was a lazy work, though. Sometimeswhen Skipper was just aching for a briskcanter he had to pace soberly through thepark driveways—for Skipper, although Idon't believe I mentioned it before, waspart and parcel of the mounted policeforce. But there, you could know that by

the yellow letters on his saddle blanket.

For half an hour at a time he would stand,just on the edge of the roadway and at anexact right angle with it, motionless as thehorse ridden by the bronze soldier up nearthe Mall. "Reddy" would sit as still in thesaddle, too. It was hard for Skipper tostand there and see those mincing cobs goby, their pad-housings all a-glitter, crestson their blinders, jingling their pole-chains and switching their absurd littlestubs of tails. But it was still moretantalizing to watch the saddle-horsescanter past in the soft bridle path on theother side of the roadway. But then, whenyou are on the force you must do yourduty.

One afternoon as Skipper was standing

post like this he caught a new note thatrose above the hum of the park traffic. Itwas the quick, nervous beat of hoofswhich rang sharply on the hard macadam.There were screams, too. It was arunaway. Skipper knew this even beforehe saw the bell-like nostrils, the strainingeyes, and the foam-flecked lips of thehorse, or the scared man in the carriagebehind. It was a case of broken rein.

How the sight made Skipper's bloodtingle! Wouldn't he just like to show thatcrazy roan what real running was! Butwhat was Reddy going to do? He felt himgather up the reins. He felt his kneestighten. What! Yes, it must be so. Reddywas actually going to try a brush with therunaway. What fun!

Skipper pranced out into the roadway andgathered himself for the sport. Before hecould get into full swing, however, theroan had shot past with a snort ofchallenge which could not bemisunderstood.

"Oho! You will, eh?" thought Skipper."Well now, we'll see about that."

Ah, a free rein! That is—almost free. Anda touch of the spurs! No need for that,Reddy. How the carriages scatter! Skippercaught hasty glimpses of smart hackneysdrawn up trembling by the roadside, ofwomen who tumbled from bicycles intothe bushes, and of men who ran andshouted and waved their hats.

"Just as though that little roan wasn't

scared enough already," thought Skipper.

But she did run well; Skipper had to admitthat. She had a lead of fifty yards beforehe could strike his best gait. Then for afew moments he could not seem to gain aninch. But the mare was blowing herselfand Skipper was taking it coolly. He wasputting the pent-up energy of weeks intohis strides. Once he saw he wasoverhauling her he steadied to the work.

Just as Skipper was about to forge ahead,Reddy did a queer thing. With his righthand he grabbed the roan with a nose-pinch grip, and with the left he pulled inon the reins. It was a great disappointmentto Skipper, for he had counted on showingthe roan his heels. Skipper knew, aftertwo or three experiences of this kind, that

this was the usual thing.

Those were glorious runs, though. Skipperwished they would come more often.Sometimes there would be two and eventhree in a day. Then a fortnight or sowould pass without a single runaway onSkipper's beat. But duty is duty.

During the early morning hours, whenthere were few people in the park,Skipper's education progressed. Helearned to pace around in a circle, liftingeach forefoot with a sway of the body anda pawing movement which was quiterhythmical. He learned to box with hisnose. He learned to walk sedately behindReddy and to pick up a glove, droppedapparently by accident. There was alwaysa sugar-plum or a sweet cracker in the

glove, which he got when Reddy stoppedand Skipper, poking his nose over hisshoulder, let the glove fall into his hands.

As he became more accomplished henoticed that "Reddy" took more pains withhis toilet. Every morning Skipper's coatwas curried and brushed and rubbed withchamois until it shone almost as if it hadbeen varnished. His fetlocks werecarefully trimmed, a ribbon braided intohis forelock, and his hoofs polished asbrightly as Reddy's boots. Then therewere apples and carrots and otherdelicacies which Reddy brought him.

So it happened that one morning Skipperheard the Sergeant tell Reddy that he hadbeen detailed for the Horse Show squad.Reddy had saluted and said nothing at the

time, but when they were once out on posthe told Skipper all about it.

"Sure an' it's app'arin' before all theswells in town you'll be, me b'y. Phat doye think of that, eh? An' mebbe ye'll begettin' a blue ribbon, Skipper, me lad; an'mebbe Mr. Patrick Martin will have aroundsman's berth an' chevrons on hissleeves afore the year's out."

The Horse Show was all that Reddy hadpromised, and more. The light almostdazzled Skipper. The sounds and thesmells confused him. But he felt Reddy onhis back, heard him chirrup softly, andsoon felt at ease on the tanbark.

Then there was a great crash of noise andSkipper, with some fifty of his friends on

the force, began to move around the circle.First it was fours abreast, then by twos,and then a rush to troop front, when, in along line, they swept around as if they hadbeen harnessed to a beam by traces ofequal length.

After some more evolutions a half-dozenwere picked out and put through theirpaces. Skipper was one of these. Thenthree of the six were sent to join the rest ofthe squad. Only Skipper and two othersremained in the centre of the ring. Men inqueer clothes, wearing tall black hats,showing much white shirt-front andcarrying long whips, came and lookedthem over carefully.

Skipper showed these men how he couldwaltz in time to the music, and the people

who banked the circle as far up as Skippercould see shouted and clapped their handsuntil it seemed as if a thunderstorm hadbroken loose. At last one of the men in tallhats tied a blue ribbon on Skipper'sbridle.

When Reddy got him into the stable, hefed him four big red apples, one after theother. Next day Skipper knew that he wasa famous horse. Reddy showed him theirpictures in the paper.

For a whole year Skipper was the pride ofthe force. He was shown to visitors at thestables. He was patted on the nose by theMayor. The Chief, who was a bigger manthan the Mayor, came up especially tolook at him. In the park Skipper did histricks every day for ladies in fine dress

who exclaimed, "How perfectlywonderful!" as well as for pretty nurse-maids who giggled and said, "Now didyou ever see the likes o' that, Norah?"

And then came the spavin. Ah, but thatwas the beginning of the end! Were youever spavined? If so, you know all aboutit. If you haven't, there's no use trying totell you. Rheumatism? Well, that may bebad; but a spavin is worse.

For three weeks Reddy rubbed the lumpon the hock with stuff from a brown bottle,and hid it from the inspector. Then, oneblack morning, the lump was discovered.That day Skipper did not go out on post.Reddy came into the stall, put his armaround his neck and said "Good-by" in avoice that Skipper had never heard him

use before. Something had made it thickand husky. Very sadly Skipper saw himsaddle one of the newcomers and go outfor duty.

Before Reddy came back Skipper was ledaway. He was taken to a big buildingwhere there were horses of every kind—except the right kind. Each one had hisown peculiar "out," although you couldn'talways tell what it was at first glance.

But Skipper did not stay here long. Hewas led into a big ring before a lot of men.A man on a box shouted out a number, andbegan to talk very fast. Skipper gatheredthat he was talking about him. Skipperlearned that he was still only six yearsold, and that he had been owned as asaddle-horse by a lady who was about to

sail for Europe and was closing out herstable. This was news to Skipper. Hewished Reddy could hear it.

The man talked very nicely about Skipper.He said he was kind, gentle, sound inwind and limb, and was not only trainedto the saddle but would work either singleor double. The man wanted to know howmuch the gentlemen were willing to payfor a bay gelding of this description.

Someone on the outer edge of the crowdsaid, "Ten dollars."

At this the man on the box grew quiteindignant. He asked if the other manwouldn't like a silver-mounted harnessand a lap-robe thrown in.

"Fifteen," said another man.

Somebody else said "Twenty," anotherman said, "Twenty-five," and still another,"Thirty." Then there was a hitch. The manon the box began to talk very fast indeed:

"Thutty-thutty-thutty-thutty—do I hear thefive? Thutty-thutty-thutty-thutty—will youmake it five?"

"Thirty-five," said a red-faced man whohad pushed his way to the front and waslooking Skipper over sharply.

The man on the box said "Thutty-five" agood many times and asked if he "heardforty." Evidently he did not, for hestopped and said very slowly anddistinctly, looking expectantly around:

"Are you all done? Thirty-five—once.Thirty-five—twice. Third—and last call—sold, for thirty-five dollars!"

When Skipper heard this he hung his head.When you have been a $250 blue-ribbonerand the pride of the force it is sad to be"knocked down" for thirty-five.

The next year of Skipper's life was a darkone. We will not linger over it. The red-faced man who led him away was agrocer. He put Skipper in the shafts of aheavy wagon very early every morningand drove him a long ways through thecity to a big down-town market wheremen in long frocks shouted and handledboxes and barrels. When the wagon washeavily loaded the red-faced man drovehim back to the store. Then a tow-haired

boy, who jerked viciously on the lines andwas fond of using the whip, drove himrecklessly about the streets and avenues.

But one day the tow-haired boy pulled thenear rein too hard while rounding a cornerand a wheel was smashed against a lamp-post. The tow-haired boy was sent headfirst into an ash-barrel, and Skipper,rather startled at the occurrence, took alittle run down the avenue, strewing thepavement with eggs, sugar, canned corn,celery, and other assorted groceries.

Perhaps this was why the grocer sold him.Skipper pulled a cart through the flat-house district for a while after that. On theseat of the cart sat a leather-lunged manwho roared: "A-a-a-a-puls! Nice a-a-a-a-puls! A who-o-ole lot fer a quarter!"

Skipper felt this disgrace keenly. Even thecab-horses, on whom he used to look withdisdain, eyed him scornfully. Skipperstood it as long as possible and then oneday, while the apple fakir was standing onthe back step of the cart shouting things ata woman who was leaning half way out ofa fourth-story window, he bolted. Hedistributed that load of apples over fourblocks, much to the profit of the streetchildren, and he wrecked the wagon on ahydrant. For this the fakir beat him with apiece of the wreckage until a blue-coatedofficer threatened to arrest him. Next daySkipper was sold again.

Skipper looked over his new ownerwithout joy. The man was evil of face. Hislong whiskers and hair were unkempt and

sun-bleached, like the tip end of apastured cow's tail. His clothes weregreasy. His voice was like the grunt of apig. Skipper wondered to what use thisman would put him. He feared the worst.

Far up through the city the man took himand out on a broad avenue where therewere many open spaces, most of themfenced in by huge bill-boards. Behind oneof these sign-plastered barriers Skipperfound his new home. The bottom of the lotwas more than twenty feet below thestreet-level. In the centre of a waste ofrocks, ash-heaps, and dead weeds tottereda group of shanties, strangely made ofodds and ends. The walls were partly ofmud-chinked rocks and partly of wood.The roofs were patched with strips of

rusty tin held in place by stones.

Into one of these shanties, just tall enoughfor Skipper to enter and no more, thehorse that had been the pride of themounted park police was driven with akick as a greeting. Skipper noted first thatthere was no feed-box and no hayrack.Then he saw, or rather felt—for the onlylight came through cracks in the walls—that there was no floor. His nostrils toldhim that the drainage was bad. Skippersighed as he thought of the clean, sweetstraw which Reddy used to change in hisstall every night.

But when you have a lump on your leg—alump that throbs, throbs, throbs with pain,whether you stand still or lie down—youdo not think much on other things.

Supper was late in coming to Skipper thatnight. He was almost starved when it wasserved. And such a supper! What do youthink? Hay? Yes, but marsh hay; the dry,tasteless stuff they use for bedding incheap stables. A ton of it wouldn't make apound of good flesh. Oats? Not a sign ofan oat! But with the hay there were a fewpotato-peelings. Skipper nosed them outand nibbled the marsh hay. The rest hepawed back under him, for the whole hadbeen thrown at his feet. Then he droppedon the ill-smelling ground and went tosleep to dream that he had been turned intoa forty-acre field of clover, while a dozenbrass bands played a waltz and multitudesof people looked on and cheered.

In the morning more salt hay was thrown

to him and water was brought in a dirtypail. Then, without a stroke of brush orcurry-comb he was led out. When he sawthe wagon to which he was to be hitchedSkipper hung his head. He had reached thebottom. It was unpainted and rickety as tobody and frame, the wheels were unmatedand dished, while the shafts were splicedand wound with wire.

But worst of all was the string of bellssuspended from two uprights above theseat. When Skipper saw these he knew hehad fallen low indeed. He had become thehorse of a wandering junkman. The nextstep in his career, as he well knew, wouldbe the glue factory and the boneyard. Nowwhen a horse has lived for twenty years orso, it is sad enough to face these things.

But at eight years to see the glue factoryclose at hand is enough to make a horsewish he had never been foaled.

For many weary months Skipper pulledthat crazy cart, with its hateful jangle ofbells, about the city streets and suburbanroads while the man with the faded hairroared through his matted beard: "Buy o-o-o-o-olt ra-a-a-a-ags! Buy o-o-o-o-oltra-a-a-a-ags! Olt boddles! Olt copper! Oltiron! Vaste baber!"

For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart.

The lump on Skipper's hock kept growingbigger and bigger. It seemed as if the dartsof pain shot from hoof to flank with everystep. Big hollows came over his eyes.You could see his ribs as plainly as thehoops on a pork-barrel. Yet six days in theweek he went on long trips and broughtback heavy loads of junk. On Sunday hehauled the junkman and his family aboutthe city.

Once the junkman tried to drive Skipperinto one of the Park entrances. Then forthe first time in his life Skipper balked.The junkman pounded and used suchlanguage as you might expect from a

junkman, but all to no use. Skipper tookthe beating with lowered head, but gothrough the gate he would not. So thejunkman gave it up, although he seemedvery anxious to join the line of gaycarriages which were rolling in.

Soon after this there came a break in thedaily routine. One morning Skipper wasnot led out as usual. In fact, no one camenear him, and he could hear no voices inthe nearby shanty. Skipper decided that hewould take a day off himself. By backingagainst the door he readily pushed it open,for the staple was insecure.

Once at liberty, he climbed the roadwaythat led out of the lot. It was late in thefall, but there was still short sweet wintergrass to be found along the gutters. For a

while he nibbled at this hungrily. Then aqueer idea came to Skipper. Perhaps thepassing of a smartly groomed saddle-horse was responsible.

At any rate, Skipper left off nibblinggrass. He hobbled out to the edge of theroad, turned so as to face the oppositeside, and held up his head. There he stoodjust as he used to stand when he was thepride of the mounted squad. He was onpost once more.

Few people were passing, and noneseemed to notice him. Yet he was an oddfigure. His coat was shaggy and weather-stained. It looked patched and faded. Thespavined hock caused one hind quarter tosag somewhat, but aside from that his posewas strictly according to the regulations.

Skipper had been playing at standing postfor a half-hour, when a trotting dandy whosported ankle-boots and toe-weights,pulled up before him. He was drawing alight, bicycle-wheeled road-wagon inwhich were two men.

"Queer?" one of the men was saying."Can't say I see anything queer about it,Captain. Some old plug that's got awayfrom a squatter; that's all I see in it."

"Well, let's have a look," said the other.He stared hard at Skipper for a momentand then, in a loud, sharp tone, said:

"'Ten-shun! Right dress!"

Skipper pricked up his ears, raised hishead, and side-stepped stiffly. The trotting

dandy turned and looked curiously at him.

"Forward!" said the man in the wagon.Skipper hobbled out into the road.

"Right wheel! Halt! I thought so," said theman, as Skipper obeyed the orders. "Thatfellow has been on the force. He wasstanding post. Looks mighty familiar, too—white stockings on two forelegs, whitestar on forehead. Now I wonder if that canbe—here, hold the reins a minute."

Going up to Skipper the man patted hisnose once or twice, and then pushed hismuzzle to one side. Skipper ducked andcountered. He had not forgotten his boxingtrick. The man turned his back and beganto pace down the road. Skipper followedand picked up a riding-glove which the

man dropped.

"Doyle," said the man, as he walked backto the wagon, "two years ago that was thefinest horse on the force—took the blueribbon at the Garden. Alderman Martinwould give $1,000 for him as he stands.He has hunted the State for him. Youremember Martin—Reddy Martin—whoused to be on the mounted squad! Didn'tyou hear? An old uncle who made afortune as a building contractor died abouta year ago and left the whole pile toReddy. He's got a fine country place up inWestchester and is in the city government.Just elected this fall. But he isn't happybecause he can't find his old horse—andhere's the horse."

Next day an astonished junkman stood

before an empty shanty which served as astable and feasted his eyes on a fifty-dollar bank-note.

If you are ever up in Westchester Countybe sure to visit the stables of Alderman P.Sarsfield Martin. Ask to see that oak-panelled box-stall with the stained-glasswindows and the porcelain feed-box. Youwill notice a polished brass name-plate onthe door bearing this inscription:

SKIPPER.

You may meet the Alderman himself,wearing an English-made riding-suit,loping comfortably along on a sleek baygelding with two white forelegs and awhite star on his forehead. Yes, high-

priced veterinaries can cure spavin—Alderman Martin says so.

CALICO

WHO TRAVELLED WITH AROUND TOP

Something there was about Calico'smarkings which stuck in one's mind, asdoes a haunting memory, intangible butunforgotten. Surely the pattern wasobtrusive enough to halt attention; yet itsvagaries were so unexpected, sosurprising that, even as you looked, youmight hesitate at declaring whether it washis withers or his flanks which were

carrot-red and if he had four whitestockings or only three. It was safersimply to say that he was white where hewas not red and red where he was notwhite. Moreover, his was a vivid coat.

Altogether Calico was a horse to beremarked and to be remembered. Yet—and again yet—Calico was not wholly toblame for his many faults. Farm breeding,which was more or less responsible forhis bizarre appearance, should also bearthe burden of his failings. As a colt he hadbeen the marvel of the county, from Oronoto Hermon Centre. He had been petted,teased, humored, exhibited, coddled,fooled with—everything save properlytrained and broken.

So he grew up a trace shirker and a halter-

puller, with disposition, temperament, andgeneral behavior as uneven as hiscoloring.

"The most good-fer-nothin' animal I everwasted grain on!" declared Uncle Enoch.

For the better part of four unproductiveyears had the life of Calico run tocommonplaces. Then, early one Junemorning, came an hour big with events.Being the nigh horse in Uncle Enoch'spair, Calico caught first glimpse of theweird procession which met them as theyturned into the Bangor road at Sherburne'sCorners.

Now it was Calico's habit to be on thewatch for unusual sights, and when he sawthem to stick his ears forward, throw his

head up, snort nervously and crowdagainst the pole. Generally he got one legover a trace. There was a white bowlderat the top of Poorhouse Hill which Caliconever passed without going through someof these man[oe]uvres.

"Hi-i-ish there! So-o-o! Dern yer crazy-quilt hide. Body'd think yer never see thatstun afore in yer life. Gee-long a-a-ap!"Uncle Enoch would growl, accenting hiswords by jerking the lines.

A scarecrow in the middle of a cornfield,an auction bill tacked to a stump, an oldhat stuffing a vacant pane and proclaimingthe shiftlessness of the AroostookBillingses, would serve when nothing elseoffered excuse for skittishness. Evensober Old Jeff, the off horse, sometimes

caught the infection for a moment. Hewould prick up his ears and lookinquiringly at the suspected object, but sosoon as he saw what it was down went hishead sheepishly, as if he was ashamed ofhaving again been tricked.

This morning, however, it was no falsealarm. When Old Jeff was roused out ofhis accustomed jog by Calico's nervoussnorts he looked up to see such aspectacle as he had never beheld in all hisgoings and comings up and down theBangor road. Looming out of the mist wasa six-horse team hitched to the mostforeign-looking rig one could wellimagine. It had something of the look of apreposterous hay-cart, with the ends ofblue-painted poles sticking out in front

and trailing behind. Following this was agreat, white-swathed wheeled box drawnby four horses. It was certainly a curiousaffair, whatever it was, but neither Caliconor Old Jeff gave it much heed, nor didthey waste a glance on the distant tail ofthe procession, for behind the wheeledbox was a thing which held their gaze.

In the gray four o'clock light it seemed likean enormous cow that rolled menacinglyforward; not as a cow walks, however,but with a swaying, heaving motion likenothing commonly seen on a Mainehighway. Instinctively both horses thrusttheir muzzles toward the thing and sniffed.Without doubt Old Jeff was frightened.Perhaps not for nine generations had anyof his ancestors caught a whiff of that

peculiarly terrifying scent of which everyhorse inherits knowledge and dread.

As for Calico, he had no need of such spuras inherited terror. He had fearsomenessenough of his own to send him rearing andpawing the air until the whiffle-treesrapped his knees. Old Jeff did not rear. Hestared and snorted and trembled. When hefelt his mate spring forward in the traceshe went with him, ready to do anything inorder to get away from that heaving,swaying thing which was coming towardthem.

"Whoa, ye pesky fools! Whoa, dod rotye!" Uncle Enoch, wakened from the halfdoze which he had been taking on thewagon-seat, now began to saw on thelines. His shouts seemed to have aroused

the heaving thing, for it answered with ahorrid, soul-chilling noise.

By this time Calico was leapingfrantically, snorting at every jump andforcing Old Jeff to keep pace. They wereat the top of a long grade and down theslope the loaded wagon rattled easilybehind them. Uncle Enoch did his best.With feet well braced he tugged at thelines and shouted, all to no purpose.Never before had Calico and Old Jeff meta circus on the move. Neither had theypreviously come into such close quarterswith an elephant. One does not expectsuch things on the Bangor road. At leastthey did not. They proposed to get awayfrom such terrors in the shortest possibletime.

Now the public ways of Maine are seldommacadamized. In places they are laid outstraight across and over the granitebackbone of the continent. The Bangorroad is thus constructed in spots. Thisslope was one of the spots where the bareledge, with here and there six-inch shelvesand eroded gullies, offered a somewhatuneven surface to the wheels. A well builtStudebaker will stand a lot of this kind ofbanging, but it is not whollyindestructible. So it happened that half-way down the hill the left hind axlesnapped at the hub. Thereupon some twohundred dozen ears of early green-cornwere strewn along the flinty face of thehighway, while Uncle Enoch was hurled,seat and all, accompanied by four dozeneggs and ten pounds of Aunt Henrietta's

best butter, into the ditch.

When the circus caravan overtook himUncle Enoch had captured the runawaysand was leading them back to where thewrecked wagon lay by the roadside. Moreor less butter was mixed with the sandychin whiskers and an inartistic yellowsmooch down the front of his coat showedthat the eggs had followed him.

"Rather lively pair of yours; eh, mister?"commented a red-faced man who droppedoff the pole-wagon.

"Yes, ruther lively," assented UncleEnoch, "'Specially when ye don't want 'emto be. The off one's stiddy enough. It's thiscantankerous skewbald that started thetantrum. Whoa now, blame ye!" Calico's

nose was in the air again and he wassnorting excitedly.

"Lemme hold him 'till old Ajax goes by,"said the circus man.

"Thank ye. I'll swap him off fust chance Igit, ef I don't fetch back nuthin' but aboneyard skate," declared Uncle Enoch.

As Ajax lumbered by, the circus man eyedwith interest the dancing Calico. He notedwith approval the coat of fantastic design,the springy knees and the fine tail thatrippled its white length almost to Calico'sheels.

"I'll do better'n that by you, mister," saidhe. "I've got a fourteen-hundred poundVermont Morgan, sound as a dollar, only

eight years old and ain't afraid o' nothin'.I'll swap him even for your skewbald."

"Like to see him," said Uncle Enoch. "Ifhe's half what ye say it's a trade."

"Here he comes on the band-wagon team;"then, to the driver: "Hey, Bill, pull up!"

In less than half an hour from the timeCalico had bolted at sight of the circuscavalcade he was part and parcel of it,and helping to pull one of thosemysterious sheeted wagons along in thewake of the terrifying Ajax.

"The old party don't give you a very goodsend off," said the boss hostlerreflectively to Calico, "but I reckon you'llget used to Ajax and the music-chariot

before the season's over. Leastways,you're bound to be an ornament to thegrand entry."

Calico's life with the Grand Occidentalbegan abruptly and vigorously. The driverof the band-wagon knew his business.Even when half asleep he could see loosetraces. After Calico had heard the longlash whistle about his ears a few times heconcluded that it was best to do his shareof the pulling.

And what pulling it was! There were sixhorses of them, Calico being one of theswings, but on an uphill grade that oldchariot was the most reluctant thing he hadever known. Uncle Enoch's stone-boat,which Calico had once held to be merelya heart-breaking instrument of torture,

seemed light in retrospect. Often did helook reproachfully at the monstrouscombination of gilded wood and iron.Why need band-wagons be made soexasperatingly heavy? The atrociouslycarved Pans on the corners, with theirscarred faces and broken pipes, werecumbersome enough to make a load forone pair of horses, all by themselves.Calico would think of them as he wasstraining up a long hill. He could almostfeel them pulling back on the traces in asort of wooden stubbornness. And whenthe team rattled the old chariot down arough grade how he hoped that two orthree of the figures might be jolted off. Butin the morning, when the show lot wasreached and the travelling wraps taken offthe wagons, there he would see the heavy

shouldered Pans all in their places ashideous and as permanent as ever.

It was a hard and bitter lesson whichCalico learned, this matter of keepingone's tugs tight. Uncle Enoch had sparedthe whip, but in the heart of Broncho Bill,who drove the band-wagon, there was noleniency. Ready and strong was his whiphand, and he knew how to make the bloodfollow the lash. No effort did he waste onfat-padded flanks when he was in earnest.He cut at the ears, where the skin istender. He could touch up the leaders aseasily as he could the wheel-horses, andwhen he aimed at the swings he nevermissed fire.

Travelling with a round top Calico foundto be no sinecure. The Grand Occidental,

being a wagon show, moved wholly byroad. The shortest jump was fifteen miles,but often they did thirty between midnightand morning; and thirty miles over countryhighways make no short jaunt when youhave a five-ton chariot behind you. Thejump, however, was only the beginning ofthe day's work. No sooner had youfinished breakfast than you were hookedin for the street parade, meaning from twoto four miles more.

You had a few hours for rest after thatbefore the grand entry. Ah, that grandentry! That was something to live for. Nomatter how bad the roads or how hard thehills had been Calico forgot it all duringthose ten delightful minutes when, with hisheart beating time to the rat-tat-tat of the

snare drum, he swung prancingly aroundthe yellow arena.

It all began in the dressing-tent with aperiod of confusion in which horses werecrowded together as thick as they couldstand, while the riders dressed andmounted in frantic haste, for to be latemeant to be fined. At last the ring-masterclapped his hands as sign that all was inreadiness. There was a momentary hush.Then a bugle sounded, the flaps werethrown back and to the crashingaccompaniment of the band, the seeminglychaotic mass unfolded into a double lineas the horses broke into a sharp galloparound the freshly dug ring.

The first time Calico did the grand entryhe felt as though he had been sucked into a

whirlpool and was being carried aroundby some irresistible force. So dazed washe by the music, by the hum of humanvoices and by the unfamiliar sights, that heforgot to rear and kick. He could onlyprance and snort. He went forwardbecause the rider of the outside horsedragged him along by the bridle rein.Around and around he circled until he lostall sense of direction, and when he wasfinally shunted out through the dressing-tent flaps he was so dizzy he couldscarcely stand.

For a horse accustomed to shy at his ownshadow this was heroic treatment. But itwas successful. In a month you could nothave startled Calico with a pound ofdynamite. He would placidly munch his

oats within three feet of the spot where astake-gang swung the heavy sledges instaccato time. He cared no more forflapping canvas than for the wagging of amule's ears. As for noises, when one hasassociated with a steam calliope oneceases to mind anything in that line. OldAjax, it was true, remained a terror toCalico for weeks, but in the end the horselost much of his dread for the ancientpachyderm, although he never felt whollycomfortable while those wicked little eyeswere turned in his direction. Hereditaryinstincts, you know, die hard.

During those four months in which theGrand Occidental flitted over the NewEngland circuit from Kenduskeag, Me., toBennington, Vt., there came upon Calico

knowledge of many things. The farm-horseto whom Bangor's market-square had beenfull of strange sights became, incomparison with his former self, mostsophisticated. He feared no noise savethat sinister whistle made by BronchoBill's long lash. The roaring sputter ofgasoline flares was no more to him thanthe sound of a running brook. He hadlearned that it was safe to kick a merecanvasman when you felt like doing so,but that a real artist, such as a tumbler or atrapeze man, was to be respected, and thatthe person of the ring-master was mostsacred. Also he acquired the knack ofsleeping at odd times, wheneveropportunity offered and under anyconditions.

When he had grown thus wise, and whenhe had ceased to stumble over guy-ropesand tent-stakes, Calico receivedpromotion. He was put in as outside horseof the leading pair in the grand entry. Hewas decorated with a white-braided cordbridle with silk rosettes and he worebetween his ears a feather pompon. Allthis was very fine and grand, but therewas so little of it.

After it was all over, when the crowdshad gone, the top lowered and the stakespulled, he was hitched to the leaden-wheeled band-wagon to strain and tug atthe traces all through the last weary half ofthe night. But when fame has started yourway, be you horse or man, you cannotescape. Just before the season closed

Calico was put on the sawdust. This wasthe way of it.

A ninety-foot top, you know, carriesneither extra people nor spare horses. Theperformers must double up their acts. Noone is exempt save the autocratic high-barfolk, who own their own apparatus anddictate contracts. So with the horses. Theteams that pull the pole-wagon, thechariots and the other wheeled thingswhich a circus needs, must also figure inthe grand entry and in the hippodromeraces. Even the ring-horses have theirshare of road-work in a wagon show.

To the dappled grays used by Mlle.Zaretti, who was a top-liner on the bills,fell the lot of pulling the ticket-wagon, thisbeing the lightest work. It was Mlle.

Zaretti's habit to ride one at the afternoonshow, the other in the evening. So whenthe nigh gray developed a shoulder gall onthe day that the off one went lame therearose an emergency. Also there ensuedtrouble for the driver of the ticket-wagon.First he was tongue lashed byMademoiselle, then he was fined a week'spay and threatened with discharge by themanager. But when the increasing wrath ofthe Champion Lady Equestrienne ofAmerica led her to demand his instant andpainful annihilation the worm turned. Thedriver profanely declared that he knew hisbusiness. He had travelled with YankRobinson, he had, and no female hair-grabber under canvas should call himdown more than once in the same day.There was more of this, added merely for

emphasis. Mlle. Zaretti saw the point. Shehad gone too far. Whereupon shediscreetly turned on her high French heelsand meekly asked the boss hostler for themost promising animal he had. The bosspicked out Calico.

No sooner was the top up that day thanCalico's training began. Well it was thathe had learned obedience, for this was tobe his one great opportunity. Many a timehad Calico circled around the bankedring's outer circumference, but never hadhe been within it. Neither had he wornbefore a broad pad. By dint of leading andcoaxing he was made to understand thathis part of the act was to canter around thering with Mlle. Zaretti on his back, whereshe was to be allowed to go through as

many motions as she pleased.

For a green horse Calico conductedhimself with much credit. He did notstumble. He did not shy at the ring-master's whip. He did not try to dodge thebanners or the hoops after he found howharmless they were.

"Well, if I cut my act perhaps I canmanage, but if I break my neck I hopeyou'll murder that fool driver," was Mlle.Zaretti's verdict and petition when thelesson ended.

Mlle. Zaretti's gyrations that afternoon andevening were somewhat tame when youconsider the manner in which she wasbilled. Calico did his part with only a fewexcusable blunders, and she was so

pleased that he got the apples andsugarplums which usually rewarded thegrays.

The galled shoulder healed, but the lameleg developed into an incurably stiff joint.Three nights later Calico, to his great joy,left the band-chariot team forever, to findhimself on the light ticket-wagon andregularly entered as a ring horse. Nor wasthis all. When the season closed Mlle.Zaretti bought Calico at an exorbitantprice. He was shipped to a strange place,where they put him in a box-stall, fed himwith generous regularity and asked him todo absolutely nothing at all.

It was a month before Calico saw hismistress again. He had been taken into agreat barn-like structure which had many

sky-lights and windows. Here was anideal ring, smooth and springy, with nohidden rocks or soft spots such as onesometimes finds when on the road. Mlle.Zaretti no longer wore her spangled pinkdress. Instead she appeared in serviceableknickerbockers and wore wooden-soledslippers on her feet. In the middle of thering a man who was turning himself into ahuman pin-wheel stopped long enough toshout: "Hello, Kate; signed yet?"

"You bet," said Mlle. Zaretti. "Next springI go out by rail with a three topper. I'mgoing to do the real bareback act, too. Nomore broad pads and wagon shows forKatie. Hey, Jim, rig up your Stokes'mechanic."

Jim, a stout man who wore his suspenders

outside a blue sweater and talked huskily,arranged a swinging derrick-arm, thepurpose of which, it developed, was tokeep Mlle. Zaretti off the groundwhenever she missed her footing onCalico's back. There was a broad leatherbelt around her waist and to this wasfastened a rope. Very often was thisneeded during those first three weeks ofpractice, for, true to her word, Mlle.Zaretti no longer strapped on Calico'sback the broad pad to which he had beenaccustomed. At first the wooden-soleshurt and made him flinch, but in time theskin became toughened and he mindedthem not at all, although Mlle. Zaretti wasno featherweight.

Long before the snow was gone Mlle.

Zaretti had discarded the derrick-arm.Urging Calico to his best speed she wouldgrasp the cinch handles and with one lightbound land on his well-resined back.Then, as he circled around in an even,rythmical lope, she would jump thebanners and dive through the hoops. It wasmore or less fun for Calico, but it allseemed so utterly useless. There were nocrowds to see and applaud. He missed themusic and the cheering.

At last there came a change. Calico andhis mistress took a journey. They arrivedin the biggest city Calico had ever seen,and one afternoon, to the accompanimentof such a crash of music and such a chorusof "HI! HI! HI's!" as he had never beforeheard, they burst into a great arena where

were not only one ring but three, and aboutthem, tier on tier as far up as one couldsee, the eager faces and gay clothes of avast multitude of spectators. Calico, asyou will guess, had become a factor in"The Grandest Aggregation."

If Calico had longed for music andapplause his wishes were surelyanswered, for, although Mlle. Zaretti hadjumped from a wagon-show to a three-ringcombination that began its season with anindoor March opening, she was still a top-liner. That is, she had a feature act.

Thus it was that just as the Japanesejugglers finished tossing each other ontheir toes in the upper ring and while theproperty helpers were making ready thelower one for the elephants, in the centre

ring Mlle. Zaretti and Calico alone heldthe attention of great audiences.

"Mem-zelle Zar-ret-ti! Champ-i-on la-dybare-back ri-der of the wor-r-r-r-ld, onher beaut-i-ful Ar-a-bian steed!"

That was the manner in which themegaphone announcer heralded theirappearance. Then followed a rattle ofdrums and a tooting of horns, ending inone tremendous bang as Calico, lifting hisfeet so high and so daintily you might havethought he was stepping over a row ofchina vases, and bowing his head so lowthat his neck arched almost double, camemincing into the arena. In his mouth hechamped solid silver bits, and hispolished hoofs were rimmed with nickel-plated shoes. The heavy bridle reins were

covered with the finest white kid, as wasthe surcingle which completed histrappings.

Rather stout had Calico become in thesehalcyon days. His back and flanks werelike the surface of a well-upholsteredsofa. His coat of motley told its own storyof daily rubbings and good feeding. Thewhite was dazzlingly white and the carrot-red patches glowed like the inside of awell-burnished copper kettle. So shinywas he that you could see reflected on hissides the black, gold-spangled tights andfluffy black skirts worn by Mlle. Zaretti,who poised on his back as lightly as if shehad been an ostrich-plume dropped on asnow-bank and who smilingly kissed herfinger-tips to the craning-necked tiers of

spectators with charming indiscriminationand admirable impartiality.

You may imagine that this picture was notwithout its effect. Never did it fail to drawforth a mighty volume of "Ohs!" and "Ah-h-h-hs!" especially at the afternoonperformances, when the youngsters wereout in force. And how Calico did relishthis hum of admiration! Perhaps Mlle.Zaretti thought some of it was meant forher. No such idea had Calico.

You could see this by the way in which hetossed his head and pawed haughtily as hewaited for the band to strike up his music.Oh, yes, his music. You must know that bythis time the horse that had once pulled thestone-boat on Uncle Enoch's farm, and hadlater learned the hard lesson of obedience

under Broncho Bill's lash had nowbecome an equine personage. He had hisgrooms and his box-stall. He had whimswhich must be humored. One of these hadto do with the music which played himthrough his act. He had discovered that theBlue Danube waltz was exactly to hisliking, and to no other tune would heconsent to do his best. Sulking was one ofhis new accomplishments.

As for Mlle. Zaretti, she affected no suchfrills, but she was ever ready to defendthose of her horse. A hard-working,frugal, ambitious young person was Mlle.Zaretti, whose few extravagances weremostly on Calico's account. For him shedemanded the Blue Danube waltz in theface of the band-master's grumblings.

When the Grandest Aggregation finallytook the road the satisfaction of Calicowas complete. He was under canvas oncemore. No band-wagon work wearied hisnights. He even enjoyed the street parade.In the evening, when his act was over, heleft the tents, glowing huge and brilliantagainst the night, and jogged quietly off tohis padded car-stall, where were to behad a full two hours' rest before No. 2train pulled out.

In the gray of the morning he would waketo contentedly look out through his gratedwindow at the flying landscape,remembering with a sigh of satisfactionthat no longer was he routed out atcockcrow to be driven afield. Later hecould see the curious crowds in the

railroad yards as the long lines of carswere shunted back and forth. As he lazilymunched his breakfast oats he watched thedraught horses patiently drag the hugechariots across the tracks and off to theshow lot where he was not due for hours.

A life of mild exertion, enjoyableexcitement, changing scenes, andconsiderate treatment was his. No wonderthe fat stuck to Calico's ribs. No wonderhis eyes beamed contentment. Such are thesweets of high achievement.

It was to sell early July peas that UncleEnoch again took the Bangor road one dayabout three years after his memorablemeeting with the Grand Occidental. On hisway across the city to Norumbega Market

he found his way blocked by a line ofwaiting people. From an urchin-tossedhandbill, Uncle Enoch learned that theGrandest Aggregation was in town andthat "the Unparalleled Street Pageant" wasabout due. So he waited.

With grim enjoyment Uncle Enochwatched the brilliant spectacleimpassively. Old Jeff merely pricked uphis ears in curious interest as theprocession moved along in its dazzlingcourse.

"Zaretti, Bareback Queen of the World!On her Famous Arabian Steed Abdullah!Presented to her by the Shah of Persia!"

Thus read Uncle Enoch as he followed theprinted order of parade with toil-grimed

forefinger.

For a moment Uncle Enoch's gaze washeld by the Bareback Queen, who lookedlanguidly into space over the top of thetiger cage. Then he stared hard at the "far-famed Arabian steed," gift of theimpulsive Shah. Said steed wascaparisoned in a gorgeous saddle-blankethung with silver fringe. A silver-mountedmartingale dangled between his knees.Holding the silk-tasselled bridle rein, andwalking in respectful attendance, was agroom in tight-fitting riding breeches and acockaded hat which rested mainly on hisears. The horse was of white, mottledwith carrot-red in such striking patternthat, having once seen it, one could hardlyforget.

"Gee whilikins!" said Uncle Enoch softlyto himself, as if fearful of betraying somenewly discovered secret.

But Old Jeff was moved to no suchreticence. Lifting his head over theshoulders of the crowd he pointed his earsand gave vent to a quick, glad whinny ofrecognition. The "far-famed Arabian,"turning so sharply that the unwary groomwas knocked sprawling, looked hard atthe humble farm-horse, and then, with ananswering high-pitched neigh, dashedthrough the quickly scattering spectators.

It was a moment of surprises. TheBareback Queen of the World was startledout of her day-dream to find her "Arabiansteed" rubbing noses with a ragged-coatedhorse hitched to a battered farm-wagon, in

which sat a chin-whiskered old fellowwho grinned expansively and slyly winkedat her over the horses' heads.

"It's all right, ma'am, I won't let on," hesaid.

Before she could reply, the groom, whohad rescued his cockaded hat and hispresence of mind, rushed in and draggedthe far-famed steed back into the line ofprocession.

"Wall, I swan to man, ef Old Jeff didn'tknow that air Calicker afore I did,"declared Uncle Enoch, as he described theaffair to Aunt Henrietta; "an' me thatraised him from a colt. I do swan to man!"

Mlle. Zaretti did not "swan to man,"

whatever that may be, but to this day shemarvels concerning the one and onlyoccasion when her trusted Calicodisturbed the progress of the GrandestAggregation's unparalleled street pageant.

OLD SILVER

A STORY OF THE GRAYHORSE TRUCK

Down in the heart of the skyscraperdistrict, keeping watch and ward overthose presumptuous, man-made cliffsaround which commerce heaps its Fundytides, you will find, unhandsomely housedon a side street, a hook and laddercompany, known unofficially andintimately throughout the department as theGray Horse Truck.

Much like a big family is a fire company.It has seasons of good fortune, when thereare neither sick leaves nor hospital casesto report; and it has periods of misfortune,when trouble and disaster stalk abruptlythrough the ranks. Gray Horse Truckcompany is no exception. Calm prosperityit has enjoyed, and of swift, unexpectedtragedy it has had full measure. Yet itslongest mourning and most sincere, waswhen it lost Old Silver.

Although some of the men of Gray HorseTruck had seen more than ten years'continuous service in the house, not onecould remember a time when Old Silverhad not been on the nigh side of the poles.Mikes and Petes and Jims there had beenwithout number. Some were good and

some were bad, some had lasted years andsome only months, some had been kindand some ugly, some stupid and someclever; but there had been but one Silver,who had combined all their good traits aswell as many of their bad ones.

Horses and men, Silver had seen themcome and go. He had seen probationersrise step by step to battalion and deputychiefs, win shields and promotion or meetthe sudden fate that is their lot. All thattime Silver's name-board had swung overhis old stall, and when the truck went outSilver was to be found in his old place onthe left of the poles. Driver succeededdriver, but one and all they found Silverfirst under the harness when a station hit,first to jump forward when the big doors

rolled back, and always as ready to do hisbit on a long run as he was to demand hisfour quarts when feeding-time came.

Before the days of the Training Stable,where now they try out new material,Silver came into the service. Thatexcellent institution, therefore, cannotclaim the credit of his selection. Perhapshe was chosen by some shrewd oldcaptain, who knew a fire-horse when hesaw one, even in the raw; perhaps it wasonly a happy chance which put him in thebusiness. At any rate, his training was thework of a master hand.

Silver was not one of the fretting kind, soat the age of fifteen he was apple-round,his legs were straight and springy, and hiseyes as full and bright as those of a

school-boy at a circus. The dapples on hisgray flanks were as distinct as the undermarkings on old velours, while his tailhad the crisp whiteness of a polished steelbit on a frosty morning. Unless you hadseen how shallow were his molar cups ornoted the length of his bridle teeth, wouldyou have guessed him not more than six.

As for the education of Silver, its scopeand completeness, no outsider would havegiven credence to the half of it. WhenLannigan had driven the truck for threeyears, and had been cronies with Silverfor nearly five, it was his habit to say,wonderingly:

"He beats me, Old Silver does. I git ontosome new wrinkle of his every day. No;'taint no sorter use to tell his tricks; you

wouldn't believe, nor would I an' I hadn'tseen with me two eyes."

In the way of mischief Silver was a starperformer. What other fire-horse evermastered the intricacies of the automatichalter release? It was Silver, too, thatpicked from the Captain's hip-pocket aneatly folded paper and chewed the samewith malicious enthusiasm. The foldedpaper happened to be the Company'sannual report, in the writing of which theCaptain had spent many weary hours.

Other things besides mischief however,had Silver learned. Chief of these was tostart with the jigger. Sleeping or waking,lying or standing, the summons that stirredthe men from snoring ease to tense, rapidaction, never failed to find Silver alert. As

the halter shank slipped through the bit-ring that same instant found Silvergathered for the rush through the longnarrow lane leading from his open stall tothe poles, above which, like greatcouchant spiders, waited the harnessespendant on the hanger-rods. It was unwiseto be in Silver's way when that littlebrazen voice was summoning him to duty.More than one man of Gray Horse Truckfound that out.

Once under the harness Silver was like acarved statue until the trip-strap had beenpulled, the collar fastened and the reinssnapped in. Then he wanted to poke thepoles through the doors, so eager was heto be off. It was no fault of Silver's that histeam could not make a two-second hitch.

With the first strain at the traces hisimpatience died out. A sixty-foot truckstarts with more or less reluctance.Besides, Silver knew that before anythinglike speed could be made it was necessaryeither to mount the grade to Broadway orto ease the machine down to GreenwichStreet. It was traces or backing-straps forall that was in you, and at the end a sharpturn which never could have been madehad not the tiller-man done his part withthe rear wheels.

But when once the tires caught the car-tracks Silver knew what to expect. At theturn he and his team mates could feelLannigan gathering in the reins as thoughfor a full stop. Next came the whistle ofthe whip. It swept across their flanks so

quickly that it was practically one strokefor them all. At the same moment Lanniganleaned far forward and shot out hisdriving arm. The reins went loose, theirheads went forward and, as if moving on apivot, the three leaped as one horse. Againthe reins tightened for a second, again theywere loosened. When the bits were pulledback up came three heads, up came threepairs of shoulders and up came three pairsof forelegs; for at the other end of thelines, gripped vice-like in Lannigan's bigfist, was swinging a good part ofLannigan's one hundred and ninety-eightpounds.

Left to themselves each horse would haveleaped at a different instant. It was thatone touch of the lash and the succeeding

swing of Lannigan's bulk which gave themthe measure, which set the time, whichmade it possible for less than fourthousand pounds of horse-flesh to jump afive-ton truck up the street at a four-minuteclip.

For Silver all other minor pleasures in lifewere as nothing to the fierce joy he knewwhen, with a dozen men clinging to thehand-rails, the captain pulling the bell-rope and Lannigan, far up above them all,swaying on the lines, the Gray HorseTruck swept up Broadway to a first call-box.

It was like trotting to music, if you've everdone that. Possibly you could havediscovered no harmony at all in theconfused roar of the apparatus as it

thundered past. But to the ears of Silverthere were many sounds blended into one.There were the rhythmical beat of hoofs,the low undertone of the wheels grindingthe pavement, the high note of the forgedsteel lock-opener as it hammered the foot-board, the mellow ding-dong of the bell,the creak of the forty-and fifty-footextensions, the rattle of the iron-shodhooks, the rat-tat-tat of the scaling ladderson the bridge and the muffled drumming ofthe leather helmets as they jumped in thebasket.

With the increasing speed all these soundsrose in pitch until, when the team was atfull-swing, they became one vibrant theme—thrilling, inspiring, exultant—the actionsong of the Truck.

To enjoy such music, to know it at its best,you must leap in the traces, feel the swingof the poles, the pull of the whiffle-trees,the slap of the trace-bearers; and you mustsee the tangled street-traffic clear beforeyou as if by the wave of a magician'swand.

Of course it all ended when, with heavingflanks and snorting nostrils you stoppedbefore a building, where thin curls ofsmoke escaped from upper windows.Generally you found purring beside ahydrant a shiny steamer which had beatenthe truck by perhaps a dozen seconds.Then you watched your men snatch thegreat ladders from the truck, heave themup against the walls and bring down pale-faced, staring-eyed men and women. You

saw them tear open iron shutters, batterdown doors, smash windows and do otherthings to make a path for the writhing,white-bodied, yellow-nosed snakes thatuncoiled from the engine and were carriedwriggling in where the flames lappedalong baseboard and floor-beams. Yousaw the little ripples of smoke swell intohuge, cream-edged billows that tumbledout and up so far above that you lost sightof them.

Sometimes there came dull explosions,when smoke and flame belched out aboutyou. Sometimes stones and bricks andcornices fell near you. But you were not toflinch or stir until Lannigan, who watchedall these happenings with critical andunwinking eyes, gave the word.

And after it was all over—when the redand yellow flames had ceased to dance inthe empty window spaces, when only thewhite steam-smoke rolled up through theyawning roof-holes—the ladders were re-shipped, you left the purring engines todrown out the last hidden spark, and youwent prancing back to your House, wherethe lonesome desk-man waited patientlyfor your return.

No loping rush was the homeward trip.The need for haste had passed. Now camethe parade. You might toss your head, archyour neck, and use all your fancy steps:Lannigan didn't care. In fact, he ratherliked to have you show off a bit. The menon the truck, smutty of face and hands,joked across the ladders. The strain was

over. It was a time of relaxing, for behindwas duty well done.

Then came the nice accuracy of swinginga sixty-foot truck in a fifty-foot street andof backing through a fourteen-foot doorwheels which spanned thirteen feet fromhub rim to hub rim.

After unhooking there was the rubbing andthe extra feeding of oats that alwaysfollows a long run. How good it was to bebedded down after this lung stretching, leglimbering work.

Such was the life which Old Silver wasleading when there arrived disaster. Itcame in the shape of a milk leg. Perhaps itwas caused by over-feeding, but morelikely it resulted from much standing in

stall during a fortnight when the runs hadbeen few and short.

It behaved much as milk legs usually do.While there was no great pain the leg wasunhandsome to look upon, and it gave toOld Silver a clumsiness of movement hehad never known before.

Industriously did Lannigan apply suchsimple remedies as he had at hand. Yet theswelling increased until from pastern tohock was neither shape nor grace. Worstof all, in getting on his feet one morning,Silver barked the skin with a rap from histoe calks. Then it did look bad. Of coursethis had to happen just before theveterinary inspector's monthly visit.

"Old Silver, eh?" said he. "Well, I've been

looking for him to give out. That's a badleg there, a very bad leg. Send him up tothe hospital in the morning, and I'll haveanother gray down here. It's time you hada new horse in his place."

Lannigan stepped forward to protest. Itwas only a milk leg. He had cured suchbefore. He could cure this one. Besides,he couldn't spare Silver, the best horse onhis team.

But the inspector often heard such pleas.

"You drivers," said he, "would keep ahorse going until he dropped through thecollar. To hear you talk anyone wouldthink there wasn't another horse in theDepartment. What do you care so long asyou get another gray?"

Very much did Lannigan care, but he founddifficulty in putting his sentiments intowords. Besides, of what use was it to talkto a blind fool who could say that one grayhorse was as good as another. HenceLannigan only looked sheepish and kepthis tongue between his teeth until the doorclosed behind the inspector. Then hebanged a ham-like fist into a broad palmand relieved his feelings in language bothforceful and picturesque. This failed tomend matters, so Lannigan, putting an armaround the old gray's neck, told Silver allabout it. Probably Silver misunderstood,for he responded by reaching overLannigan's shoulder and chewing the bigman's leather belt. Only when Lanniganfed to him six red apples and an extraquart of oats did Silver mistrust that

something unusual was going to happen.Next morning, sure enough, it did happen.

Some say Lannigan wept. As to that nonemight be sure, for he sat facing the wall ina corner of the bunk-room. Nomisunderstanding could there have beenabout his remarks, muttered though theywere. They were uncomplimentary to allveterinary inspectors in general, and mostpointedly uncomplimentary to one inparticular. Below they were leading OldSilver away to the hospital.

Perhaps it was that Silver's milk leg wasstubborn in yielding to treatment. Perhapsthe folks at the horse hospital deemed itunwise to spend time and effort on a horseof his age. At any rate, after less than aweek's stay, he was cast into oblivion.

They took away the leaden number medal,which for more than ten years he had wornon a strap around his neck, and they turnedhim over to a sales-stable as carelessly asa battalion chief would toss away a half-smoked cigar.

Now a sales-stable is a place where horsedestinies are shuffled by reckless andunthinking hands. Also its doors open onthe four corners of the world's crossedhighways. You might go from there to findyour work waiting between the shafts of abaker's cart just around the corner, or youmight be sent across seas to die miserablyof tsetse stings on the South African veldt.

Neither of these things happened to Silver.It occurred that his arrival at the sales-stable was coincident with a rush order

from the Street Cleaning Department. Sothere he went. Fate, it seemed, had markedhim for municipal service.

There was no delay about his initiation.Into his forehoofs they branded thisshameful inscription: D. S. C. 937, on hisback they flung a forty-pound singleharness with a dirty piece of canvas as ablanket. They hooked him to an irondump-cart, and then, with a heavy lashedwhip, they haled him forth at 5.30 a.m. tobegin the inglorious work of removingrefuse from the city streets.

Perhaps you think Old Silver could notfeel the disgrace, the ignominy of it all.Could you have seen the lowered head,the limp-hung tail, the dulled eyes and thedispirited sag of his quarters, you would

have thought differently.

It is one thing to jump a hook and laddertruck up Broadway to the relief of a fire-threatened block, and quite another to plodhumbly along the curb from ash-can toash-can. How Silver did hate those cans.Each one should have been for him asignal to stop. But it was not. Inconsequence, he was yanked to a haltevery two minutes.

Sometimes he would crane his neck andlook mournfully around at the unsightly legwhich he had come to understand was thecause of all his misery. There would comeinto his great eyes a look of such pitifulmelancholy that one might almost fancytears rolling out. Then he would be rousedby an exasperated driver, who jerked

cruelly on the lines and used his whip as ifit had been a flail.

When the cart was full Silver must drag ithalf across the city to the riverfront, andup a steep runway from the top of whichits contents were dumped into the filthyscows that waited below. At the end ofeach monotonous, wearisome day hejogged stiffly to the uninviting stables,where he was roughly ushered into a dark,damp stall.

To another horse, unused to anythingbetter, the life would not have seemedhard. Of oats and hay there were fairquantities, and there was more or lesshasty grooming. But to Silver, accustomedto such little amenities as friendly patsfrom men, and the comradeship of his

fellow-workers, it was like a bad dream.He was not even cheered by the fact thathis leg, intelligently treated by the stable-boss, was growing better. What did thatmatter? Had he not lost his caste? Expressand dray horses, the very ones that hadonce scurried into side streets at sound ofhis hoofs, now insolently crowded him tothe curb. When he had been on the truckSilver had yielded the right of way tonone, he had held his head high; now hedodged and waited, he wore a blindbridle, and he wished neither to see nor tobe seen.

For three months Silver had pulled thathateful refuse chariot about the streets,thankful only that he traversed a section ofthe city new to him. Then one day he was

sent out with a new driver whose route layalong familiar ways. The thing Silverdreaded, that which he had long feared,did not happen for more than a week afterthe change.

It came early one morning. He had beenbacked up in front of a big office-buildingwhere a dozen bulky cans cumbered thesidewalk. The driver was just lifting oneof them to the tail-board when, from fardown the street, there reached Silver'sears a well-known sound. Nearer it swept,louder and louder it swelled. The old graylifted his lowered head in spite of hisdetermination not to look. The driver, too,poised the can on the cart-edge, andwaited, gazing.

In a moment the noise and its cause were

opposite. Old Silver hardly needed toglance before knowing the truth. It was hisold company, the Gray Horse Truck.There was his old driver, there were hisold team mates. In a flash there passedfrom Silver's mind all memory of hishumble condition, his wretched state.Tossing his head and giving his tail aswish, he leaped toward the apparatus,neatly upsetting the filled ash-can over thehead and shoulders of the bewildereddriver.

By a supreme effort Silver dropped intothe old lope. A dozen bounds took himabreast the nigh horse, and, in spite ofLannigan's shouts, there he stuck, litteringthe newly swept pavement mostdisgracefully at every jump. Thus

strangely accompanied, the Gray HorseTruck thundered up Broadway for tenblocks, and when it stopped, before abuilding in which a careless watchman'slantern had set off the automatic, OldSilver was part of the procession.

It was Lannigan who, in the midst of aneloquent flow of indignant abuse, madethis announcement: "Why, boys—it's—it'sour Old Silver; jiggered if it ain't!"

Each member of the crew havingexpressed his astonishment in appropriatewords, Lannigan tried to sum it all up bysaying:

"Silver, you old sinner! So they've put youin a blanked ash-cart, have they? Well, I'll—I'll be——"

But there speech failed him. His wits didnot. There was a whispered council ofwar. Lannigan made a daring proposal, atwhich all grinned appreciatively.

"Sure, they'd never find out," said one.

"An' see, his game leg's most as good asnew again," suggested another.

It was an unheard-of, audacious, andpreposterous proceeding; one which therules and regulations of the FireDepartment, many and varied as they are,never anticipated. But it was adopted.Meanwhile the Captain found it necessaryto inspect the interior of the building, theLieutenant turned his back, and the thingwas done.

That same evening an ill-tempered andvery dirty ash-cart driver turned up at thestables with a different horse from the onehe had driven out that morning, much tothe mystification of himself and certainofficials of the Department of StreetCleaning.

Also, there pranced back as nigh horse ofthe truck a big gray with one slightlyswollen hind leg. By the way he held hishead, by the look in his big, bright eyes,and by his fancy stepping one might havethought him glad to be where he was. Andit was so. As for the rest, Lannigan willtell you in strict confidence that the bestmode of disguising hoof-brands until theyare effaced by new growth is to fill themwith axle-grease. It cannot be detected.

Should you ever chance to see, swingingup lower Broadway, a hook-and-laddertruck drawn by three big grays jumping inperfect unison, note especially the nighhorse—that's the one on the left sidelooking forward. It will be Old Silverwho, although now rising sixteen, seemsto be good for at least another four yearsof active service.

BLUE BLAZES

AND THE MARRING OFHIM

Those who should know say that a coltmay have no worse luck than to be foaledon a wet Friday. On a most amazingly wetFriday—rain above, slush below, and aMarch snorter roaring between—such wasthe natal day of Blue Blazes.

And an unhandsome colt he was. Hisbroomstick legs seemed twice the properlength, and so thin you would hardly have

believed they could ever carry him. Hishead, which somehow suggested the linesof a boot-jack, was set awkwardly on anewed neck.

For this pitiful, ungainly little figure onlytwo in all the world had any feeling otherthan contempt. One of these, of course,was old Kate, the sorrel mare whomothered him. She gazed at him with sadold eyes blinded by that maternal lovecommon to all species, sighed with hugecontent as he nuzzled for his breakfast, andbelieved him to be the finest colt that eversaw a stable. The other was Lafe, thechore boy, who, when Farmer Perkins hadstirred the little fellow roughly with hisboot-toe as he expressed his deepdissatisfaction, made reparation by gently

stroking the baby colt and bringing an oldhorse-blanket to wrap him in. Old Kateunderstood. Lafe read gratitude in the big,sorrowful mother eyes.

Months later, when the colt had learned tobalance himself on the spindly legs, theold sorrel led him proudly about thepasture, showing him tufts of sweet newspring grass, and taking him to the brook,where were tender and juicy cowslips,finely suited to milk-teeth.

In time the slender legs thickened, thechest deepened, the barrel filled out, thehead became less ungainly. As if to makeup for these improvements, the colt'smarkings began to set. They took theshapes of a saddle-stripe, three whitestockings, and an irregular white blaze

covering one side of his face and patchingan eye. On chest and belly the mothersorrel came out rather sharply, but on therest of him was that peculiar blendingwhich gives the blue roan shade, a colorunpleasing to the critical eye, and one thatlowers the market value.

Lafe, however, found the colt good to lookupon. But Lafe himself had no heritage ofbeauty. He had not even grown up to hisown long, thin legs. Possibly no boy everhad hair of such a homely red. Certainlyfew could have been found with biggerfreckles. But it was his eyes whichaccented the plainness of his features. Youknow the color of a ripe gooseberry, thatindefinable faint purplish tint; well, thatwas it.

If Lafe found no fault with Blue Blazes,the colt found no fault with Lafe. At firstthe colt would sniff suspiciously at himfrom under the shelter of the old sorrel'sneck, but in time he came to regard Lafewithout fear, and to suffer a hand on hisflank or the chore boy's arm over hisshoulder. So between them wasestablished a gentle confidence beautifulto see.

Fortunate it would have been had Lafebeen master of horse on the Perkins farm.But he was not. Firstly, there are no suchofficials on Michigan peach-farms;secondly, Lafe would not have filled theposition had such existed. Lafe, you see,did not really belong. He was aninterloper, a waif who had drifted in from

nowhere in particular, and who, becauseof a willingness to do a man's work for nowages at all, was allowed a place at tableand a bunk over the wagon-shed. FarmerPerkins, more jealous of his reputation forshrewdness than of his soul's salvation,would point to Lafe and say, knowingly:

"He's a bad one, that boy is; look at themeyes." And surely, if Lafe's soul-windowsmirrored the color of his mental state, hewas indeed in a bad way.

In like manner Farmer Perkins judged oldKate's unhandsome colt.

"Look at them ears," he said, reallylooking at the unsightly nose-blaze. "We'llhave a circus when it comes to breakin'that critter."

Sure enough, it was more or less of acircus. Perhaps the colt was at fault,perhaps he was not. Olsen, a sullen-facedSwede farm-hand, whose youth had beenspent in a North Sea herring-boat, andwhose disposition had been matured bysundry second mates on tramp steamers,was the appropriate person selected forintroducing Blue Blazes to the uses of ahalter.

Judging all humans by the standardestablished by the mild-mannered Lafe,the colt allowed himself to be caught aftersmall effort. But when the son of old Katefirst felt a halter he threw up his head inalarm. Abruptly and violently his headwas jerked down. Blue Blazes wassurprised, hurt, angered. Something was

bearing hard on his nose; there wassomething about his throat that choked.

Had he, then, been deceived? Here hewas, wickedly and maliciously trapped.He jerked and slatted his head some more.This made matters worse. He was cuffedand choked. Next he tried rearing. Hishead was pulled savagely down, and atthis point Olsen began beating him withthe slack of the halter rope.

Ah, now Blue Blazes understood! Theygot your head and neck into thatarrangement of straps and rope that theymight beat you. Wild with fear he plungeddesperately to right and left. Blindly hereared, pawing the air. Just as one of hishoofs struck Olsen's arm a buckle broke.The colt felt the nose-strap slide off. He

was free.

A marvellous tale of fierce encounter witha devil-possessed colt did Olsen carryback to the farm-house. In proof heshowed a broken halter, rope-blisteredhands, and a bruised arm.

"I knew it!" said Farmer Perkins. "Knew itthe minute I see them ears. He's a viciousbrute, that colt, but we'll tame him."

So four of them, variously armed withwhips and pitchforks, went down to thepasture and tried to drive Blue Blazes intoa fence corner. But the colt was not to becornered. From one end of the pasture tothe other he raced. He had had enough ofmen for that day.

Next morning Farmer Perkins triedfamiliar strategy. Under his coat he hid astout halter and a heavy bull whip. Then,holding a grain measure temptingly beforehim, he climbed the pasture fence.

In the measure were oats which he rattledseductively. Also he called mildly andpersuasively. Blue Blazes was suspicious.Four times he allowed the farmer to comealmost within reaching distance only toturn and bolt with a snort of alarm just atthe crucial moment. At last he concludedthat he must have just one taste of thoseoats.

"Come coltie, nice coltie," cooed the manin a strained but conciliating voice.

Blue Blazes planted himself for a sudden

whirl, stretched his neck as far as possibleand worked his upper lip inquiringly. Thesmell of the oats lured him on. Hardly hadhe touched his nose to the grain before themeasure was dropped and he foundhimself roughly grabbed by the forelock.In a moment he saw the hated straps andropes. Before he could break away thehalter was around his neck and buckledfirmly.

Farmer Perkins changed his tone: "Now,you damned ugly little brute, I've got you![Jerk] Blast your wicked hide! [Slash]You will, will you? [Yank] I'll larn you!"[Slash.]

Man and colt were almost exhausted whenthe "lesson" was finished. It left BlueBlazes ridged with welts, trembling, fright

sickened. Never again would he trusthimself within reach of those men; no, notif they offered him a whole bushel of oats.

But it was a notable victory. VauntinglyFarmer Perkins told how he had halteredthe vicious colt. He was unconscious thata pair of ripe gooseberry eyes turnedblack with hate, that behind his broadback was shaken a futile fist.

The harness-breaking of Blue Blazes wasconducted on much the same plan as hishalter-taming, except that during theprocess he learned to use his heels. OneOlsen, who has since walked with a limp,can tell you that.

Another feature of the harness-breakingcame as an interruption to further bull-

whip play by Farmer Perkins. It was ahighly melodramatic episode in whichLafe, gripping the handle of a two-tinedpitchfork, his freckled-face greenish-whiteand the pupils of his eyes wide with thefear of his own daring, threatenedimmediate damage to the person of FarmerPerkins, unless the said Perkins droppedthe whip. This Perkins did. More than that,he fled with ridiculous haste, and incraven terror; while Lafe, having given thetrembling colt a parting caress, quitted thefarm abruptly and for all time.

As for Blue Blazes, two days later he wassold to a travelling horse-dealer, anddeparted without any sorrow of farewells.In the weeks during which he trailed overthe fruit district of southern Michigan in

the wake of the horse-buyer, Blue Blazeslearned nothing good and much that wasill. He finished the trip with raw hocks, ahoof-print on his flank, and teeth-marks onneck and withers. Horses led in a bunchdo not improve in disposition.

Some of the scores the blue-roan colt paidin kind, some he did not, but he learnedthe game of give and take. Men and horsesalike, he concluded, were against him. Ifhe would hold his own he must be readywith teeth and hoofs. Especially hecarried with him always a black, furioushatred of man in general.

So he went about with ears laid back, thewhites of his eyes showing, and a bite or akick ready in any emergency. Day by daythe hate in him deepened until it became

the master-passion. A quick foot-fallbehind him was enough to send his heelsflying as though they had been released bya hair-trigger. He kicked first andinvestigated afterward. The mere sight ofa man within reaching distance roused allhis ferocity.

He took a full course in vicious tricks. Helearned how to crowd a man against theside of a stall, and how to reach him,when at his head, by an upward andforward stroke of the forefoot. He couldkick straight behind with lightningquickness, or give the hoof a sweepingside-movement most comprehensive andunexpected. The knack of lifting the bitswith the tongue and shoving them forwardof the bridle-teeth came in time. It made

running away a matter of choice.

When it became necessary to causediversion he would balk. He no longercared for whips. Physically and mentallyhe had become hardened to blows. Men hehad ceased to fear, for most of them fearedhim and he knew it. He only despised andhated them. One exception Blue Blazesmade. This was in favor of men and boyswith red hair and freckles. Such he wouldnot knowingly harm. A long memory hadthe roan.

Toward his own kind Blue Blazes borehimself defiantly. Double harness wassomething he loathed. One was not free towork his will on the despised driver ifhampered by a pole and mate. In suchcases he nipped manes and kicked under

the traces until released. He had a specialantipathy for gray horses and fought themon the smallest provocation, or upon noneat all.

As a result Blue Blazes, while knowing nomasters, had many owners, sometimesthree in a single week. He began hiscareer by filling a three months'engagement as a livery horse, but after hehad run away a dozen times, wreckedseveral carriages, and disabled a hostler,he was sold for half his purchase price.

Then did he enter upon his wanderings inreal earnest. He pulled street-cars,delivery wagons, drays and ash-carts. Hewas sold to unsuspecting farmers, who,when his evil traits cropped out, swappedhim unceremoniously and with ingenious

prevarication by the roadside. In thenatural course of events he was muchpunished.

Up and across the southern peninsula ofMichigan he drifted contentiously,growing more vicious with eachencounter, more daring after each victory.In Muskegon he sent the driver of agrocery wagon to the hospital with ashoulder-bite requiring cauterization andfour stitches. In Manistee he broke thesmall bones in the leg of a baker's largeboy. In Cadillac a boarding-stable hostlerstruck him with an iron shovel. BlueBlazes kicked the hostler quite accuratelyand very suddenly through a window.

Between Cadillac and Kalaska he spentseveral lively weeks with farmers. Most

of them tried various taming processes.Some escaped with bruises and somesuffered serious injury. At Alpena hefound an owner who, having readsomething very convincing in a horse-trainer's book, elaborately strapped theroan's legs according to diagram, and thenwent into the stall to wreak vengeancewith a riding-whip. Blue Blazes acceptedone cut, after which he crushed theavenger against the plank partition untilthree of the man's ribs were broken. TheAlpena man was fished from under theroan's hoofs just in time to save his life.

This incident earned Blue Blazes the nameof "man-killer," and it stuck. He evenfigured in the newspaper dispatches."Blue Blazes, the Michigan Man-Killer,"

"The Ugliest Horse Alive," "Alpena'sEquine Outlaw"; these were some of thehead-lines. The Perkins method had bornefruit.

When purchasers for a four-leggedhurricane could no longer be found, BlueBlazes was sent up the lake to an obscurelittle port where they have only a Tuesdayand Friday steamer, and where the blueroan's record was unknown. Horses werein demand there. In fact, Blue Blazes wassold almost before he had been led downthe gang-plank.

"Look out for him," warned the steam-boatman; "he's a wicked brute."

"Oh, I've got a little job that'll soon takethe cussedness out of him," said the

purchaser, with a laugh.

Blue Blazes was taken down into thegloomy fore-hold of a three-masted lakeschooner, harnessed securely between twolong capstan bars, and set to walking in anaimless circle while a creaking cable waswound about a drum. At the other end ofthe cable were fastened, from time to time,squared pine-logs weighing half a toneach. It was the business of Blue Blazes todraw these timbers into the hold through atrap-door opening in the stern. There wasnothing to kick save the stout bar, andthere was no one to bite. Well out of reachstood a man who cracked a whip and,when not swearing forcefully, shouted"Ged-a-a-ap!"

For several uneventful days he was forced

to endure this exasperating condition ofaffairs with but a single break in themonotony. This came on the first evening,when they tried to unhook him. Theexperiment ended with half a blue-flannelshirt in the teeth of Blue Blazes and abadly scared lumber-shover hiding in thefore-peak. After that they put grain andwater in buckets, which they cautiouslyshoved within his reach.

Of course there had to be an end to this. Indue time the Ellen B. was full of squaretimbers. The Captain notified the owner ofBlue Blazes that he might take hisblankety-blanked horse out of the EllenB.'s fore-hold. The owner declined, andentrenched himself behind a puretechnicality. The Captain had hired from

him the use of a horse; would the Captainkindly deliver said horse to him, theowner, on the dock? It was a spiritedcontroversy, in which the horse-ownerscored several points. But the schoonercaptain by no means admitted defeat.

"The Ellen B. gets under way inside of ahalf hour," said he. "If you want yourblankety-blanked horse you've got thatmuch time to take him away."

"I stand on my rights," replied the horse-owner. "You sail off with my property ifyou dare. Go ahead! Do it! Next time theEllen B. puts in here I'll libel her fordamages."

Yet in the face of this threat the Ellen B.cast off her hawsers, spread her sails, and

stood up the lake bound Chicagowardthrough the Straits with Blue Blazes stillon board. Not a man-jack of the crewwould venture into the fore-hold, whereBlue Blazes was still harnessed to thecapstan bars.

When he had been without water or grainfor some twelve hours the wrath in him,which had for days been growing moreintense, boiled over. Having voiced hisrage in raucous squeals, he took tochewing the bridle-strap and to kicking thewhiffle-tree. The deck watch gazed downat him in awe. The watch below,separated from him only by a thinpartition, expressed profane disapprovalof shipping such a passenger.

There was no sleep on the Ellen B. that

night. About four in the morning thecontinued effort of Blue Blazes met withreward. The halter-strap parted, and thestout oak whiffle-tree was splintered intomany pieces. For some minutes BlueBlazes explored the hold until he found thegang-plank leading upward.

His appearance on the deck of the Ellen B.caused something like a panic. The man atthe wheel abandoned his post, and as hestarted for the cross-trees let loose a yellwhich brought up all hands. Blue Blazescharged them with open mouth. Not a manhesitated to jump for the rigging. Theschooner's head came up into the wind, thejib-sheet blocks rattled idly and the boomsswung lazily across the deck, just grazingthe ears of Blue Blazes.

How long the roan might have held thedeck had not his thirst been greater thanhis hate cannot be told. Water was whathe needed most, for his throat seemedburning, and just overside was animmensity of water. So he leaped.Probably the crew of the Ellen B. believeto this day that they escaped by a miraclefrom a devil-possessed horse who, findingthem beyond his reach, committed suicide.

But Blue Blazes had no thought of self-destruction. After swallowing as muchlake water as was good for him he struckout boldly for the shore, which was notmore than half a mile distant, swimmingeasily in the slight swell. Gaining the log-strewn beach, he found himself at the edgeof one of those ghostly, fire-blasted

tamarack forests which cover greatsections of the upper end of Michigan'ssouthern peninsula. At last he had escapedfrom the hateful bondage of man.Contentedly he fell to cropping the coarsebeach-grass which grew at the forest'sedge.

For many long days Blue Blazes revelledin his freedom, sometimes wandering formiles into the woods, sometimes rangingthe beach in search of better pasturage.Water there was aplenty, but food wasdifficult to find. He even browsed bushesand tree-twigs. At first he expectedmomentarily to see appear one of hisenemies, a man. He heard imaginaryvoices in the beat of the waves, thecreaking of wind-tossed tree-tops, the caw

of crows, or in the faint whistlings ofdistant steamers. He began to looksuspiciously behind knolls and stumps.But for many miles up and down the coastwas no port, and the only evidences hehad of man were the sails of passingschooners, or the trailing smoke-plumes ofsteam-boats.

Not since he could remember had BlueBlazes been so long without feeling awhip laid over his back. Still, he was notwholly content. He felt a strangeuneasiness, was conscious of a longingother than a desire for a good feed of oats.Although he knew it not, Blue Blazes, whohated men as few horses have ever hatedthem, was lonesome. He yearned forhuman society.

When at last a man did appear on thebeach the horse whirled and dashed intothe woods. But he ran only a shortdistance. Soon he picked his way back tothe lake shore and gazed curiously at theintruder. The man was making a fire ofdriftwood. Blue Blazes approached himcautiously. The man was bending over thefire, fanning it with his hat. In a moment helooked up.

A half minute, perhaps more, horse andman gazed at each other. Probably it was amoment of great surprise for them both.Certainly it was for the man. SuddenlyBlue Blazes pricked his ears forward andwhinnied. It was an unmistakable whinnyof friendliness if not of glad recognition.The man on the beach had red hair—hair

of the homeliest red you could imagine.Also he had eyes of the color of ripegooseberries.

"You see," said Lafe, in explaining thematter afterward, "I was hunting for burls.I had seen 'em first when I was aboutsixteen. It was once when a lot of us wentup on the steamer from Saginaw afterblack bass. We landed somewhere andwent up a river into Mullet Lake. Well,one day I got after a deer, and he led meoff so far I couldn't find my way back tocamp. I walked through the woods formore'n a week before I came out on thelake shore. It was while I was trampingaround that I got into a hardwood swampwhere I saw them burls, not knowing what

they were at the time.

"When I showed up at home my stepfatherwas tearing mad. He licked me good andhad me sent to the reform school. I ranaway from there after a while and struckthe Perkins farm. That's where I got toknow Blue Blazes. After my row withPerkins I drifted about a lot until I gotwork in this very furniture factory,"whereupon Lafe swept a comprehensivehand about, indicating the sumptuouslyappointed office.

"Well, I worked here until I saw them takeoff the cars a lot of those knots just likethe ones I'd seen on the trees up in thatswamp. 'What are them things?' says I tothe foreman.

"'Burls,' says he.

"'Worth anything?' says I.

"'Are they?' says he. 'They're the mostexpensive pieces of wood you can findanywhere in this country. Them's what wesaw up into veneers.'

"That was enough for me. I had a talk withthe president of the company. 'If you canlocate that swamp, young man,' says he,'and it's got in it what you say it has, I'llhelp you to make your fortune."

"So I started up the lake to find theswamp. That's how I come to run acrossBlue Blazes again. How he came to bethere I couldn't guess and didn't find outfor months. He was as glad to see me as I

was to see him. They told me afterwardthat he was a man-killer. Man-killernothing! Why, I rode that horse for over ahundred miles down the lake-shore withnot a sign of a bridle on him.

"Of course, he don't seem to like othermen much, and he did lay up one or two ofmy hostlers before I understood him. Yousee"—here Mr. Lafe, furniture magnate,flushed consciously—"I can't have any butred-headed men—red-headed like me, youknow—about my stable, on account ofBlue Blazes. Course, it's foolish, but Iguess the old fellow had a tough time of itwhen he was young, same as I did; andnow—well, he just suits me, Blue Blazesdoes. I'd rather ride or drive him than anythoroughbred in this country; and, by jinks,

I'm bound he gets whatever he wants, evenif I have to lug in a lot of red-headed menfrom other States."

CHIEFTAIN

A STORY OF THE HEAVYDRAUGHT SERVICE

He was a three-quarter blood Norman,was Chieftain. You would have knownthat by his deep, powerful chest, hischunky neck, his substantial, shaggy-fetlocked legs. He had a family tree,registered sires, you know, and, had hewished, could have read you a pedigreereaching back to Sir Navarre (6893).

Despite all this, Chieftain was guilty of no

undue pride. Eight years in the truckingbusiness takes out of one all suchnonsense. True, as a three-year-old he hadgiven himself some airs. There was smallwonder in that. He had been the boast ofKeokuk County for a whole year. "We'llshow 'em what we can do in Indiana," thestockmaster had said as Chieftain, hissilver-white tail carefully done up in redflannel, was led aboard the cars forshipment East.

They are not unused to ton-weight horsesin the neighborhood of the Bull's Head,where the great sales-stables are. Still,when Chieftain was brought out, his finedappled coat shining like frosted steel inthe sunlight, and his splendid tail, whichhad been done up in straw crimps over

night, rippling and waving behind him,there was a great craning of necks amongthe buyers of heavy draughts.

"Gentlemen," the red-faced auctioneer hadshouted, "here's a buster; one of the kindyou read about, wide as a wagon, with aleg on each corner. There's a ton of him, awhole ton. Who'll start him at threehundred? Why, he's as good as money inthe bank."

That had been Chieftain's introduction tothe metropolis. But the triple-hitch is agreat leveller. In single harness, eventhough one does pull a load, there ischance for individuality. One may tossone's head; aye, prance a bit on a nippingmorning. But get between the poles of abreast-team, with a horse on either side,

and a twelve-ton load at the trace-ends,and—well, one soon forgets such vanitiesas pride of champion sires, and one learnsnot to prance.

In his eight years as inside horse ofbreast-team No. 47, Chieftain hadforgotten much about pedigree, but he hadlearned many other things. He had come toknow the precise moment when, in easinga heavy load down an incline, it was safeto slacken away on the breeching and trotgently. He could tell, merely by glancingat a rise in the roadway, whether a slow,steady pull was needed, or if the time hadcome to stick in his toe-calks and throwall of his two thousand pounds on thecollar. He had learned not to fret himselfinto a lather about strange noises, and not

to be over-particular as to the kind ofcompany in which he found himselfworking. Even though hitched up with avicious Missouri Modoc on one side anda raw, half collar-broken Kanuck on theother, he would do his best to steady themdown to the work. He had learned to stopat crossings when a six-foot Broadway-squad officer held up one finger, and togive way for no one else. He knew byheart all the road rules of the crowdedway, and he stood for his rights.

He would do his best to steady them down to the work.

So, in stress of storm or quivering summerheat, did Chieftain toil between the poles,hauling the piled-up truck, year in andyear out, up and down and across the citystreets. And in time he had forgotten hisNorman blood, had forgotten that he wasthe great-grandson of Sir Navarre.

Some things there were, however, whichChieftain could not wholly forget. Thesememories were not exactly clear, but,vague as they were, they stuck. They hadto do with fields of new grass, with theelastic feel of dew-moistened turf underone's hoofs, with the enticing smell ofsweet clover in one's nostrils, the sound of

gently moving leaves in one's ears, and thesense that before, as well as behind, werelong hours of delicious leisure.

It was only in the afternoons that thesememories troubled Chieftain. In themorning one feels fresh and strong andcontented, and, when one has time for anythought at all, there are comfortingreflections that in the nose-bags, swungunder the truck-seat, are eight quarts ofgood oats, and that noon must come sometime or other.

But along about three o'clock of a Julyday, with stabling time too far away to bethought of, when there was nothing to dobut to stand patiently in the glare of thesun-baked freight-yard, while Tim and hishelper loaded on case after case and

barrel after barrel, then it was thatChieftain could not help thinking about thefields of new grass, and other thingsconnected with his colt days.

Sometimes, when he was ploddingdoggedly over the hard pavements, withevery foot-fall jarring tired muscles, hewould think how nice it would be, just fora week or so, to tread again that yieldingturf he had known such a long, long timeago. Then, perhaps, he would slacken justa bit on the traces, and Tim would givethat queer, shrill chirrup of his, adding,sympathetically: "Come, me bye, comeahn!" Then Chieftain would tighten thetraces in an instant, giving his wholeattention to the business of keeping themtaut and of placing each iron-shod hoof

just where was the surest footing.

In this last you may imagine there is noknack. Perhaps you think it is done off-hand. Well, it isn't. Ask any experienceddraught-horse used to city trucking. Hewill tell you that wet cobble-stones,smoothed by much wear and greased withstreet slime, cannot be travelledheedlessly. Either the heel or the toe calksmust find a crevice somewhere. If they donot, you are apt to go on your knees orslide on your haunches. Flat-rail car-tracks give you unexpected side slips. Sodo the raised rims of man-hole covers. Butwhen it comes to wet asphalt—your calkswill not help you there. It's just a case ofnice balancing and trusting to luck.

Much, of course, depends on the man at

the other end of the lines. In this particularChieftain was fortunate, for a better driverthan Tim Doyle did not handle leather forthe company. Even "the old man"—thestable-boss—had been known to say asmuch.

Chieftain had taken a liking to Tim thefirst day they turned out together, whenChieftain was new to the city and totrucking. Driver Doyle's fondness forChieftain was of slower growth. In thosedays there were other claimants for Tim'saffections than his horses. There was aMrs. Doyle, for instance. SometimesChieftain saw her when Tim drove thetruck anywhere in the vicinity of the flat-house in which he lived. She would comeout and look at the team, and Tim would

tell what fine horses he had. There was ayoung Tim, too, a big, growing boy, whowould now and then ride on the truck withhis father.

One day—it was during Chieftain's fifthyear in the service—something hadhappened to Mrs. Doyle. Tim had notdriven for three days that time, and whenhe did come back he was a very soberTim. He told Chieftain all about it,because he had no one else to tell. Soonafter this young Tim, who had grown up,went away somewhere, and from that timeon the friendship between old Tim andChieftain became closer than ever. Timspent more and more of his time at thestable, until at the end, he fixed himself abunk in the night watchman's office and

made it his home.

So, for three years or more Chieftain hadalways had a good-night pat on the flankfrom Tim, and in the morning, after thecurrying and rubbing, they had a littlefriendly banter, in the way of love-slapsfrom Tim and good-natured nosings fromChieftain. Perhaps many of Tim'sconfidences were given half in jest, andperhaps Chieftain sometimes thought thatTim was a bit slow in perception, but, allin all, each understood the other, evenbetter than either realized.

Of course, Chieftain could not tell Tim ofall those vague longings which had to dowith new grass and springy turf, nor couldhe know that Tim had similar longings.These thoughts each kept to himself. But if

Chieftain was of Norman blood, a horsewhose noble sires had ranged pasture andpaddock free from rein or trace, Tim wasa Doyle whose father and grandfather hadlived close to the good green sod, and haddone their toil in the open, with the cooland calm of the country to soothe andrevive them.

Of such delights as these both Chieftainand Tim had tasted scantily, hurriedly, inyouth; and for them, in the lapses of thedaily grind, both yearned, each after hisown fashion.

And, each in his way, Tim and Chieftainwere philosophers. As the years had comeand gone, toil-filled and uneventful, thecharacter of the man had ripened andmellowed, the disposition of the horse had

settled and sweetened.

In his earlier days Tim had been ready tosmash a wheel or lose one, to demandright of way with profane unction, and toback his word with whip, fist, or bale-hook. But he had learned to yield an inchon occasion and to use the soft word.

Chieftain, too, in his first years betweenthe poles, had sometimes been impatientwith the untrained mates who from time totime joined the team. He had taken part inmane-biting and trace-kicking, especiallyon days when the loads were heavy andthe flies thick, conditions which try thebest of horse tempers. But he had steadieddown into a pole-horse who could set anexample that was worth more than all thesix-foot lashes ever tied to a whip-stock.

It was during the spring of Chieftain'seighth year with the company that thingsreally began to happen. First there camerheumatism to Tim. Trucking uses up menas well as horses, you know. While it isthe hard work and the heavy feeding ofoats which burn out the animal, it isgenerally the exposure and the harddrinking which do for the men. Tim,however, was always moderate in his useof liquor, so he lasted longer than mostdrivers. But at one-and-forty the wearingof rain-soaked clothes called for reprisal.One wet May morning, after vainly tryingto hobble about the stable, Tim, with abottle of horse liniment under his arm,gave it up and went back to his bunk.

Team No. 47 went out that day with a new

driver, a cousin of the stable-boss, whohad never handled anything better thancommon, light-weight express horses.How Chieftain did miss Tim those nextfew days! The new man was slow atloading, and, to make up the time, he cutshort their dinner-hour. Now it is not thewise thing to hurry horses who have justeaten eight quarts of oats. The teamfinished the day well blown, and in acondition generally bad. Next day the newman let the off horse stumble, and therewas a pair of barked knees to be doctored.

Matters went from bad to worse, until onthe fourth day came the climax. Sludgeacid is an innocent-appearing liquidwhich sometimes stands in pools near gas-works. Good drivers know enough to

avoid it. It is bad for the hoofs. The newman still had many things to learn, and thishappened to be one of them. In themorning Team 47 was disabled. Thecompany's veterinary looked at the spongyhoofs and remarked to the stable-boss:"About three weeks on the farm will fix'em all right, I guess; but I should adviseyou to chuck that new driver out of thewindow; he's too expensive for us."

That was how Chieftain's yearningshappened to be gratified at last. Thecompany, it seems, has a big farm,somewhere "up State," to which disabledhorses are sent for rest and recuperation.Invalided drivers must look out forthemselves. You can get a hundred truckdrivers by hanging out a sign: good

draught horses are to be had only for aprice.

Chieftain and Tim parted with mutualmisgivings. To a younger horse the longride in the partly open stock-car mighthave been a novelty, but to Chieftain,accustomed to ferries and the sight of allmanner of wheeled things, it was withoutnew sensations.

At the end of the ride—ah, that wasdifferent. There were the sweet, freshfields, the springy green turf, the trees—all just as he had dreamed a hundredtimes. Halterless and shoe-freed,Chieftain pranced about the pasture for allthe world like a two-year-old. With headand tail up he ranged the field. He eventried a roll on the grass. Then, when he

was tired, he wandered about, nibblingnow and then at a tempting bunch of grass,but mainly exulting in his freedom. Therewere other company horses in the field,but most of them were busy grazing. Eachwas disabled in some way. One was halffoundered, one had a leg-sprain, anotherswollen joints; but hoof complaints, suchas toe-cracks, quarter-cracks, brittle feet,and the like, were the most frequent ills.They were not a cheerful lot, and theywere unsociable.

Chieftain went ambling off by himself, andin due time made acquaintance with arather gaunt, weather-beaten sorrel whohung his head lonesomely over the fencefrom an adjoining pasture. He seemedgrateful for the notice taken of him by the

big Norman, and soon they were the bestof friends. For hours they stood with theirmuzzles close together or their neckscrossed in fraternal fashion, swappinghorse gossip after the manner of their kind.

The sorrel, it appeared, was farm-bredand farm-reared. He knew little or nothingof pavements and city hauling. All hisyears had been spent in the country. Inspite of his bulging ribs and unkempt coatChieftain almost envied him. What a finething it must be to live as the sorrel lived,to crop the new grass, to feel the turfunder your feet, and to drink, instead ofthe hard stuff one gets from the hydrant,the soft sweet brook water, to drink itstanding fetlock deep in the hoof-soothingmud! But the sorrel was lacking in

enthusiasm for country life.

About the fifth day of his rustication thesharp edge of Chieftain's appreciationbecame dulled. He discovered that pasturelife was wanting in variety. Also hemissed his oats. When one has beenaccustomed to twenty-four quarts a day,and hay besides, grass seems a mildsubstitute. Graze industriously as hewould, it was hard to get enough. Thesorrel, however, was sure Chieftainwould get used to all that.

In time, of course, the talk turned to thepulling of heavy loads. The sorrelmentioned the yanking of a hay-rick, ladenwith two tons of clover, from the farmeadow lot to the barn. Two tons!Chieftain snorted in mild disdain. Had not

his team often swung down Broadwaywith sixteen tons on the truck? To be sure,narrow tires and soft-going made adifference.

The country horse suggested that dragginga breaking plough through old sod wasstrenuous employment. Yes, it might be,but had the sorrel ever tightened the tracesfor a dash up a ferry bridgeway when thetide was out? No, the sorrel had done hishauling on land. He had never ridden onboats. He had heard them, though. Theywere noisy things, almost as noisy as anold Buckeye mower going over a stonyfield.

Then let him snake a truck down West Street.

Noise! Would the sorrel like to knowwhat noise really was? Then let him behooked into a triple Boston backing hitchand snake a truck down West Street, withthe whiffle-trees slatting in front of him,the spreader-bar rapping jig time on thepoles, and the gongs of street-cars andautomobiles and fire-engines andambulances all going at once. Noise? Lethim mix in a Canal Street jam or back upfor a load on a North River pier!

And as Chieftain recalled these things thecontrast of the pasture's oppressivestillness to the lively roar of the familiarstreets came home to him. Who was taking

his place between the poles of Team 47?Had they put one of those cheeky Clydesin his old stall? He would not care to losethat stall. It was the best on the secondfloor. It had a window in it, and Sundayshe could see everything that went on in thestreet below. He could even look into thefront rooms of the tenements across theway. There was a little girl over therewho interested Chieftain greatly. She wastrying to raise some sort of a flower in atin can which she kept on the window-ledge. She often waved her hand atChieftain.

Then there was poor Tim Doyle. Goodold Tim! Where was another driver likehim? He made you work, Tim did, but helooked out for you all the time. Always on

the watch, was Tim, for galled spots,chafing sores, hoof-pricks, and things likethat. If he could get them he would put onfresh collar-pads every week. And howcarefully he would cover you up when youwere on the forward end of a ferryboat instormy weather. No tossing the blanketover your back from Tim. No, sir! It wasalways doubled about your neck andchest, just where you most need protectionwhen you're steaming hot and the wind israw. How many drivers warmed the bitson a cold morning or rinsed out yourmouth in hot weather? Who, but Tim coulddrive a breast team through a——

But just here Chieftain heard a shrill,familiar whistle, and in a moment, with asmuch speed as his heavy build allowed,

he was making his way across the field towhere a short, stocky man with a broadgrin cleaving his face, was climbing thepasture-fence. It was Tim Doyle himself.

Tim, it seems, had so bothered the stable-boss with questions about the farm, itslocation, distance from the city, andgeneral management, that at last thatautocrat had said: "See here, Doyle, if youwant to go up there just say so and I'llsend you as car hostler with the nextbatch. I'll give you a note to the farmsuperintendent. Guess he'll let you hangaround for a week or so."

"I'll go up as hostler," said Tim, "but youjust say in that there note that Tim Doylepays his own way after he gets there."

In that way it was settled. For some fourdays Tim appeared to enjoy it greatly.Most of his time he spent sitting on thepasture-fence, smoking his pipe andwatching the grazing horses. To Chieftainalone he brought great bunches of clover.

About the fifth day Tim grew restive. Hehad examined Chieftain's hoofs andpronounced them well healed, but thesuperintendent said that it would be aweek before he should be ready to sendanother lot of horses back to the city.

"How far is it by road?" asked Tim.

"Oh, two hundred miles or so," said thesuperintendent.

"Why not let me take Chieftain down that

way? It'd be cheaper'n shippin' him, an' dohim good."

The superintendent only laughed and saidhe would ship Chieftain with the others,when he was ready.

That evening Tim sat on the bench beforethe farm-house and smoked his pipe untileveryone else had gone to bed. The moonhad risen, big and yellow. In a pondbehind the stables it seemed as if tenthousand frogs had joined in one grandchorus. They were singing their matingsong, if you know what that is. It is notaltogether a cheerful or harmonious effort.Next to the soughing of a November windit is, perhaps, the most dismally lonesomesound in nature.

For two hours Tim Doyle smoked andthought and listened. Then he knocked theashes out of his pipe and decided that hehad been long enough in the country. Hewould walk to the station, two milesaway, and take the midnight train to thecity. As he went down the farm roadskirting the pasture he saw in themoonlight the sheds where the horses wentat night for shelter. Moved by somesudden whim, he stopped and whistled. Amoment later a big horse appeared fromunder the shed and came toward him,neighing gratefully. It was Chieftain.

"Well, Chieftain, me bye, I'll be lavin' yefor a spell. But I'll have yer old stall readyagainst yer comin' back. Good-by,laddie," and with this Tim patted Chieftain

on the nose and started down the road. Hehad gone but a few steps when he heardChieftain whinny. Tim stoppedirresolutely, and then went on. Again camethe call of the horse. There was nomisunderstanding its meaning. Tim walkedback to the fence.

In the morning the farm superintendentfound on the door-sill a roughly pencillednote which read:

"Hav goan bak to the sitty P S chefetunwarnted to goe so I tuk him. Tim Doyle."

They were ten days on the road, tendelightful days of irresponsiblevagabondism. Sometimes Tim rode onChieftain's back and sometimes he walkedbeside him. At night they took shelter in

any stable that was handy. Tim invested ina bridle and saddle blanket. Also hebought oats and hay for Chieftain. The bigNorman followed his own will, stoppingto graze by the roadside whenever hewished. Together they drank from brooksand springs. Between them was perfectcomradeship. Each was in holiday moodand each enjoyed the outing to the fullest.As they passed through towns theyattracted no little attention, for outside ofthe city 2,000-pound horses are seldomseen, and there were many admirers ofChieftain's splendid proportions. Tim hadmany offers from shrewd horse-dealers.

"Ye would, eh? A whole hundreddollars!" Tim would answer with finesarcasm. "Now, wouldn't that be too

much, don't ye think? My, my, what agenerous mon it is! G'wan, Chieftain, erMister Car-na-gy here'll be after givin' usa lib'ry."

Chieftain, and Tim, too, for that matter,were nearer actual freedom than everbefore. For years the big Norman had usedhis magnificent muscles only for strainingat the traces. He had trod only the hardpavements. Now, he put forth his gloriousstrength at leisure, moving along thepleasant country roads at his own gait, andbeing guided only when a turning was tobe made.

Fine as it all was, however, as they drewnear to the city both horse and driverbecame eager to reach their old quarters.Tim was, for he has said so. As for

Chieftain—let the stable-boss, who knowshorse-nature better than most men knowthemselves, tell that part of the story.

"Bigger lunatics than them two, Tim Doyleand old Chieftain, I never set eyes on," hesays. "I was standin' down here by thedouble doors watchin' some of the day-teams unhook when I looks up the street ona sudden. An' there, tail an' head up likehe was a 'leven-hundred-pound Kentuckyhunter 'stead of heavy-weight draught,comes that old Chieftain, a whinnyin' likea three-year-old. An' on his back, mindyou, old Tim Doyle, grinnin' away 'sif hewas Tod Sloan finishin' first at theBrooklyn Handicap. Tickled? I never seea horse show anything so plain in all mylife. He just streaked it up that runway and

into his old stall like he was a prodigalson come back from furren parts.

"Yes, Tim he's out on the truck with hisold team. Tim don't have to drivenowadays, you know. Brother of his thatwas in the contractin' business died aboutthree months ago an' left Tim quite a pile.Tim, he says he guesses the money won'ttake no hurt in the bank and that some day,when he an' Chieftain git ready to retire,maybe it'll come in handy."

BARNACLES

WHO MUTINIED FORGOOD CAUSE

With his coming to Sculpin Point therewas begun for Barnacles the mostsurprising period of a more or less usefulcareer which had been filled with unusualequine activities. For Barnacles was ahorse, a white horse of unguessed breedand uncertain age.

Most likely it was not, but it may havebeen, Barnacles's first intimate connection

with an affair of the heart. Said affair wasbetween Captain Bastabol Bean, ownerand occupant of Sculpin Point, and Mrs.Stashia Buckett, the unlamenting relict ofthe late Hosea Buckett.

Mrs. Buckett it was who induced CaptainBastabol Bean to purchase a horse.Captain Bean, you will understand, hadjust won the affections of the plump Mrs.Buckett. Also he had, with a sailor'signorance of feminine ways, presumed tosettle off-hand the details of the comingnuptials.

"I'll sail over in the dory Mondayafternoon," said he, "and take you backwith me to Sculpin Point. You can haveyour dunnage sent over later by team. Inthe evenin' we'll have a shore chaplain

come 'round an' make the splice."

"Cap'n Bean," replied the rotund Stashia,"we won't do any of them things, not one."

"Wha-a-at!" gasped the Captain.

"Have you ever been married, Cap'nBean?"

"N-n-no, my dear."

"Well, I have, and I guess I know how itought to be done. You'll have the ministercome here, and here you'll come to marryme. You won't come in no dory, either.Catch me puttin' my two hundred an' thirtypounds into a little boat like that. You'lldrive over here with a horse, like arespectable person, and you'll drive backwith me, by land and past Sarepta

Tucker's house so's she can see."

Now for more than thirty years BastabolBean, as master of coasting schooners upand down the Atlantic seaboard, had givenorders. He had taken none, except theformal directions of owners. He did notpropose to begin taking them now, noteven from such an altogether charmingperson as Stashia Buckett. This much hesaid. Then he added:

"Stashia, I give in about coming here tomarry you; that seems no more than fair.But I'll come in a dory and you'll go backin a dory."

"Then you needn't come at all, Cap'nBastabol Bean."

Argue and plead as he might, this was herultimatum.

"But, Stashia, I 'ain't got a horse, neverowned one an' never handled one, and youknow it," urged the Captain.

"Then it's high time you had a horse andknew how to drive him. Besides, if I go toSculpin Point I shall want to come to thevillage once in a while. I sha'n't sail and Isha'n't walk. If I can't ride like a lady Idon't go to the Point."

The inevitable happened. Captain Beanpromised to buy a horse next day. Hencehis visit to Jed Holden and hisintroduction to Barnacles, as the Captainimmediately named him.

As one who inspects an unfamiliar object,Captain Bean looked dazedly atBarnacles. At the same time Barnaclesinspected the Captain. With head loweredto knee level, with ears cocked forward,nostrils sniffing and under-lip twitchingalmost as if he meant to laugh, Barnacleseyed his prospective owner. In commonwith most intelligent horses, he had analmost human way of expressing curiosity.

Captain Bean squirmed under the gaze ofBarnacles's big, calm eyes for a moment,and then shifted his position.

"What in time does he want anyway, Jed?"demanded the Captain.

"Wants to git acquainted, that's all, Cap'n.Mighty knowin' hoss, he is. Now some

hosses don't take notice of anything.They're jest naturally dumb. Then aginyou'll find hosses that seem to know everyblamed word you say. Them's the kind ofhosses that's wuth havin."

"S'pose he knows all the ropes, Jed?"

"I should say he did, Cap'n. If there'sanything that hoss ain't done in his day Idon't know what 'tis. Near's I can find outhe's tried every kind of work, in or out oftraces, that you could think of."

"Sho!" The Captain was now looking atthe old white horse in an interestedmanner.

"Yes, sir, that's a remarkable hoss,"continued the now enthusiastic Mr.

Holden. "He's been in the cavalry service,for he knows the bugle calls like a book.He's travelled with a circus—ain't nomore afraid of elephants than I be. He'srun on a fire engine—know that 'cause hewants to chase old Reliance every timeshe turns out. He's been a street-car hoss,too. You jest ring a door gong behind himtwice an' see how quick he'll dig in histoes. The feller I got him off'n said heknew of his havin' been used on a milkwagon, a pedler's cart and a hack. Fact is,he's an all round worker."

"Must be some old by your tell,"suggested the Captain. "Sure his timbersare all sound?"

"Dun'no' 'bout his timbers, Cap'n, but asfer wind an' limb you won't find a sounder

hoss, of his age, in this county. Course, I'mnot sellin' him fer a four-year-old. But foryour work, joggin' from the P'int into thevillage an' back once or twice a week, Ish'd say he was jest the ticket; an' forty-five, harness an' all as he stands, is dirtcheap."

Again Captain Bean tried to lookcritically at the white horse, but oncemore he met that calm, curious gaze andthe attempt was hardly a success.However, the Captain squinted solemnlyover Barnacles's withers and remarked:

"Yes, he has got some good lines, as yousay, though you wouldn't hardly call himclipper built. Not much sheer for'ard an' aleetle too much aft, eh?"

At this criticism Jed snorted mirthfully.

"Oh, I s'pose he's all right," quickly addedthe Captain. "Fact is, I ain't never paidmuch attention to horses, bein' on thewater so much. You're sure he'll mind hishelm, Jed?"

"Oh, he'll go where you p'int him."

"Won't drag anchor, will he?"

"Stand all day if you'll let him."

"Well, Jed, I'm ready to sign articles, Iguess."

It was about noon that a stable-boydelivered Barnacles at Sculpin Point. Hisarrival caused Lank Peters to suspendpeeling the potatoes for dinner and

demand explanation.

"Who's the hoss for, Cap'n?" asked Lank.

It was a question that Captain Bean hadbeen dreading for two hours. When he hadgiven up coasting, bought the strip ofMassachusetts seashore known as SculpinPoint, built a comfortable cottage on it andsettled down within sight and sound of thesalt water, he had brought with him LankPeters, who for a dozen years hadpresided over the galley in the Captain'sship.

More than a mere sea-cook was LankPeters to Captain Bean. He wasconfidential friend, advising philosopher,and mate of Sculpin Point. Yet from Lankhad the Captain carefully concealed all

knowledge of his affair with the WidowBuckett. The time of confession was athand.

In his own way and with a directnesspeculiar to all his acts, did Captain Beanadmit the full sum of his rashness, adding,thoughtfully: "I s'pose you won't have todo much cookin' after Stashia comes; butyou'll still be mate, Lank, and there'll beplenty to keep you busy on the P'int."

Quietly and with no show of emotion, asbefitted a sea-cook and a philosopher,Melankthon Peters heard theserevelations. If he had his prejudices as tothe wisdom or folly of marrying widows,he said no word. But in the matter ofBarnacles he felt more free to expresssomething of his uneasiness.

"I didn't ship for no hostler, Cap'n, an' Iguess I'll make a poor fist at it, but I'll domy best," he said.

"Guess we'll manage him between us,Lank," cheerfully responded the Captain."I ain't got much use for horses myself; butas I said, Stashia, she's down on boats."

"Kinder sot in her idees, ain't she, Cap'n?"insinuated Lank.

"Well, kinder," the Captain admitted.

Lank permitted himself to chuckleguardedly. Captain Bastabol Bean, as aninnumerable number of sailor-men hadlearned, was a person who generally hadhis own way. Intuitively the Captainunderstood that Lank had guessed of his

surrender. A grim smile was barelysuggested by the wrinkles about his mouthand eyes.

"Lank," he said, "the Widow Buckett an'me had some little argument over thishorse business an'—an'—I give in. Shetold me flat she wouldn't come to the P'intif I tried to fetch her by water in the dory.Well, I want Stashia mighty bad; for she'sa fine woman, Lank, a mighty fine woman,as you'll say when you know her. So Ipromised to bring her home by land andwith a horse. I'm bound to do it, too. Butby time!" Here the Captain suddenlyslapped his knee. "I've just been struckwith a notion. Lank, I'm going to see whatyou think of it."

For an hour Captain and mate sat in the

sun, smoked their pipes and talkedearnestly. Then they separated. Lankbegan a close study of Barnacles'scomplicated rigging. The Captain trampedoff toward the village.

Late in the afternoon the Captain returnedriding in a sidebar buggy with a man.Behind the buggy they towed a skeletonlumber wagon—four wheels connected byan extension pole. The man drove away inthe sidebar leaving the Captain and thelumber wagon.

Barnacles, who had been moored to akedge-anchor, watched the next day'sproceedings with interest. He saw theCaptain and Lank drag up from the beachthe twenty-foot dory and hoist it upbetween the wheels. Through the forward

part of the keelson they bored a hole forthe king-bolt. With nut-bolts they fastenedthe stern to the rear axle, adding somevery seamanlike lashings to stay the boatin place. As finishing touches they paintedthe upper strakes of the dory white, givingto the lower part and to the running-gearof the cart a coat of sea-green.

Barnacles was experienced, but a vehiclesuch as this amphibious product ofSculpin Point he had never before seen.With ears pointed and nostrils palpitatingfrom curiosity, he was led up to the boat-bodied wagon. Reluctantly he backedunder the raised shafts. The practice-hitchwas enlivened by a monologue, on the partof Captain Bean, which ran something likethis:

"Now, Lank, pass aft that backstay [thetrace] and belay; no, not there! Belay tothat little yard-arm [whiffle-tree]. Got itthrough the lazy-jack [trace-bearer]? Nowreeve your jib-sheets [lines] through themdead-eyes [hame rings] and pass 'em aft.Now where in Tophet does thisthingumbob [holdback] go? Give it a turnaround the port bowsprit [shaft]. There,guess everything's taut."

The Captain stood off to take an admiringglance at the turnout.

"She's down by the bow some, Lank, but Iguess she'll lighten when we get aboard.See what you think."

Lank's inspection caused him to meditateand scratch his head. Finally he gave his

verdict: "From midships aft she looks astrim as a liner, but from midships for'ardshe looks scousy, like a Norwegian trampafter a v'yage round The Horn."

"Color of old Barnacles don't suit, eh?No, it don't, that's so. But I couldn't find nogreen an' white horse, Lank."

"Couldn't we paint him up a leetle,Cap'n?"

"By Sancho, I never thought of that!"exclaimed Captain Bean. "Course we can;git a string an' we'll strike a water-line onhim."

With no more ado than as if the thing wasquite usual, the preparations for carryingout this indignity were begun. Perhaps the

victim thought it a new kind of grooming,for he made no protest. Half an hour laterold Barnacles, from about the middle ofhis barrel down to his shoes, was painteda beautiful sea-green. Like someresplendent marine monster shone thelower half of him. It may have been atrifle bizarre, but, with the sun on the freshpaint, the effect was unmistakably striking.Besides, his color now matched that of thedory's with startling exactness.

"That's what I call real ship-shape,"declared Captain Bean, viewing the result."Got any more notions, Lank?"

"Strikes me we ought to ship a mast so'swe could rig a sprit-sail in case the oldhorse should give out, Cap'n."

"We'll do it, Lank; fust rate idee!"

So a mast and sprit-sail were rigged in thedory. Also the lines were lengthened withrope, that the Captain might steer from thestern sheets.

"She's as fine a land-goin' craft as ever Isee anywhere," said the Captain, whichwas certainly no extravagant statement.

How Captain Bean and his mate steeredthe equipage from Sculpin Point to thevillage, how they were cheered andhooted along the route, how they ran intothe yard of the Metropolitan Livery Stableas a port of refuge, how the Captainescaped to the home of Widow Buckett,how the "splicin'" was accomplished—these are details which must be slighted.

The climax came when the newly madeMrs. Bastabol Buckett Bean, her plumphand resting affectionately on the sleeve ofthe Captain's best blue broadcloth coat,said, cooingly: "Now, Cap'n, I'm ready todrive to Sculpin Point."

"All right, Stashia, Lank's waitin' for us atthe front door with the craft."

At first sight of the boat on wheels Mrs.Bean could do no more than attempt, bymeans of indistinct ejaculation, to expressher obvious emotion. She noted thegrinning crowd of villagers, SareptaTucker among them. She saw the whiteand green dory with its mast, and withLank, villainously smiling, at the top of astep-ladder which had been leaned againstthe boat; she saw the green wheels, and

the verdant gorgeousness of Barnacles'slower half. For a moment she gazed at thefantastic equipage and spoke not. Then sheslammed the front door with an indignantbang, marched back into the sitting-roomand threw herself on the haircloth sofawith an abandon that carried away half adozen springs.

For the first hour she reiterated, betweenvast sobs, that Captain Bean was asoulless wretch, that she would never setfoot on Sculpin Point, and that she woulddie there on the sofa rather than ride insuch an outlandish rig.

Many a time had Captain Bean weatheredHatteras in a southeaster, but never had hemet such a storm of feminine fury as this.However, he stood by like a man, putting

in soothing words of explanation andendearment whenever a lull gaveopportunity.

Toward evening the storm spent itself.The disturbed Stashia became somewhatcalm. Eventually she laughed hystericallyat the Captain's arguments, and in the endshe compromised. Not by day would sheenter the dory wagon, but late in theevening she would swallow her pride andgo, just to please the Captain.

Thus it was that soon after ten o'clock,when the village folks had laughed theirfill and gone away, the new Mrs. Beanclimbed the step-ladder, bestowed herselfunhandily on the midship thwart and, withLank on lookout in the bow, and CaptainBean handling the reins from the stern

sheets, the honeymoon chariot got underway.

By the time they reached the Shell Roadthe gait of the dejected Barnacles haddwindled to a deliberate walk which allof Lank's urgings could not hasten. It wasa soft July night with a brisk offshorebreeze and the moon had come up out ofthe sea to silver the highway and lay astrip of milk-white carpet over the waves.

"Ahoy there, Lank!" shouted thebridegroom. "Can't we do better'n this?Ain't hardly got steerage-way on her."

"Can't budge him, Cap'n. Hadn't we bettershake-out the sprit-sail; wind's fairabeam."

"Yes, shake it out, Lank."

Mrs. Bean's feeble protest was unheeded.As the night wind caught the sail androunded it out the flapping caused oldBarnacles to cast an investigating glancebehind him. One look at the terrible whitething which loomed menacingly above himwas enough. He decided to bolt. Bolt hedid to the best of his ability, all obstaclesbeing considered. A down grade in theShell Road, where it dipped toward theshore, helped things along. Barnaclestightened the traces, the sprit-sail did itsshare, and in an amazingly short time theodd vehicle was spinning toward SculpinPoint at a ten-knot gait. Desperately Mrs.Bean gripped the gunwale and lustily shescreamed:

"Whoa, whoa! Stop him, Captain, stophim! He'll smash us all to pieces!"

"Set right still, Stashia, an' trim ship. I'vegot the helm," responded the Captain, whohad set his jaws and was tugging at therope lines.

"Breakers ahead, sir!" shouted Lank at thisjuncture.

Sure enough, not fifty yards ahead, theShell Road turned sharply away from theedge of the beach to make a detour bywhich Sculpin Point was cut off.

"I see 'em, Lank."

"Think we can come about, Cap'n?" askedLank, anxiously.

"Ain't goin to try, Lank. I'm layin' astraight course for home. Stand by tobail."

How they could possibly escape capsizingLank could not understand until, just asBarnacles was about to make the turn, hesaw the Captain tighten the right-hand reinuntil it was as taut as a weatherstay. Ofnecessity Barnacles made no turn, andthere was no upset. Something equallyexciting happened, though.

Leaving the road with a speed which hehad not equalled since the days when hehad figured in the "The GrandHippodrome Races," his sea-green legsquickened by the impetus of the affairbehind him, Barnacles cleared the narrowstrip of beach-grass at a jump. Another

leap and he was hock deep in the surf.Still another, and he split a roller with hiswhite nose.

With a dull chug, a resonant thump, and animpetuous splash the dory entered itsaccustomed element, lifting some threegallons of salt water neatly over the bows.Lank ducked. The unsuspecting Stashiadid not, and the flying brine struck fairlyunder her ample chin.

"Ug-g-g-gh! Oh! Oh! H-h-h-elp!"spluttered the startled bride, and tried toget on her feet.

"Sit down!" roared Captain Bean.Vehemently Stashia sat.

"W-w-w-we'll all b-b-be d-d-drowned,

drowned!" she wailed.

"Not much we won't, Stashia. We're allright now, and we ain't goin' to have ournecks broke by no fool horse, either. Trimin the sheet, Lank, an' then take that bailin'scoop." The Captain was now calmlyconfident and thoroughly at home.

Drenched, cowed and trembling, thenewly made Mrs. Bean clung despairinglyto the thwart, fully as terrified as theplunging Barnacles, who struck out wildlywith his green legs, and snorted everytime a wave hit him. But the lines held uphis head and kept his nose pointingstraight for the little beach on SculpinPoint, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant.

Somewhat heavy weather the deep-laden

dory made of it, and in spite of Lank'svigorous bailing the water sloshed aroundMrs. Bean's boot-tops, yet in time the sailand Barnacles brought them safely home.

"'Twa'n't exactly the kind of honeymoontrip I'd planned, Stashia," commented theCaptain, as he and Lank steadied thebride's dripping bulk down the step-ladder, "and we did do some sailin', spiteof ourselves; but we had a horse in frontan' wheels under us all the way, just as Ipromised."

BLACK EAGLE

WHO ONCE RULED THERANGES

Of his sire and dam there is no record. Allthat is known is that he was raised on aKentucky stock farm. Perhaps he was ason of Hanover, but Hanoverian or no, hewas a thoroughbred. In the ordinarycourse of events he would have been triedout with the other three-year olds for thebig meet on Churchill Downs. In the handsof a good trainer he might have carried to

victory the silk of some great stable andhad his name printed in the sportingalmanacs to this day.

But there was about Black Eagle nothingordinary, either in his blood or in hiscareer. He was born for the part heplayed. So at three, instead of beingentered in his class at Louisville, ithappened that he was shipped West,where his fate waited.

No more comely three year old ever tookthe Santa Fé trail. Although he stood butthirteen hands and tipped the beam atscarcely twelve hundred weight, youmight have guessed him to be taller by twohands. The deception lay in the way hecarried his shapely head and in the mannerin which his arched neck tapered from the

well-placed shoulders.

A horseman would have said that he had a"perfect barrel," meaning that his ribswere well rounded. His very gait was anembodied essay on graceful pride. As forhis coat, save for a white star just in themiddle of his forehead, it was as blackand sleek as the nap on a new silk hat.After a good rubbing he was so shiny thatat a distance you might have thought himstarched and ironed and newly come fromthe laundry.

His arrival at Bar L Ranch made no greatstir, however. They were not connoisseursof good blood and sleek coats at the Bar Loutfit. They were busy folks who mostneeded tough animals that could lope offfifty miles at a stretch. They wanted

horses whose education included the fineart of knowing when to settle back on therope and dig in toes. It was not a questionas to how fast you could do your sevenfurlongs. It was more important to know ifyou could make yourself useful at a round-up.

"'Nother bunch o' them green Easternhorses," grumbled the ranch boss as the lotwas turned into a corral. "But that blackfellow'd make a rustler's mouth water, eh,Lefty?" In answer to which the said Lefty,being a man little given to speech, grunted.

"We'll brand 'em in the mornin'," addedthe ranch boss.

Now most steers and all horses object tothe branding process. Even the spiritless

little Indian ponies, accustomed to manyingenious kinds of abuse, rebel at this. Ameek-eyed mule, on whom humility restsas an all-covering robe, must be properlyroped before submitting.

In branding they first get a rope over yourneck and shut off your wind. Then they tripyour feet by roping your forelegs whileyou are on the jump. This brings you downhard and with much abruptness. A cowboysits on your head while others pin you tothe ground from various vantage-points.Next someone holds a red-hot iron on yourrump until it has sunk deep into your skin.That is branding.

Well, this thing they did to the blackthoroughbred, who had up to that time feltnot so much as the touch of a whip. They

did it, but not before a full dozen cow-punchers had worked themselves into sucha fury of exasperation that no shred ofpicturesque profanity was left unusedamong them.

Quivering with fear and anger, the black,as soon as the ropes were taken off,dashed madly about the corral looking invain for a way of escape from historturers. Corrals, however, are built toresist just such dashes. The burn of abranding iron is supposed to heal almostimmediately. Cowboys will tell you that ahorse is always more frightened than hurtduring the operation, and that the day afterhe feels none the worse.

All this you need not credit. A burn is aburn, whether made purposely with a

branding iron or by accident in any otherway. The scorched flesh puckers andsmarts. It hurts every time a leg is moved.It seems as if a thousand needles wereplaying a tattoo on the exposed surface.Neither is this the worst of the business.To a high-strung animal the roping,throwing, and burning is a tremendousnervous shock. For days after branding ahorse will jump and start, quivering withexpectant agony, at the slightest cause.

It was fully a week before the blackthoroughbred was himself again. In thattime he had conceived such a deep andlasting hatred for all men, cowboys inparticular, as only a high-spirited, blue-blooded horse can acquire. With deepcontempt he watched the scrubby little

cow ponies as they doggedly carriedabout those wild, fierce men who threwtheir circling, whistling, hateful ropes,who wore such big, sharp spurs and whowere viciously handy in using theirrawhide quirts.

So when a cowboy put a breaking-bit intothe black's mouth there was another livelyscene. It was somewhat confused, thisscene, but at intervals one could make outthat the man, holding stubbornly to maneand forelock, was being slatted andslammed and jerked, now with his feet onthe ground, now thrown high in the air andnow dangling perilously and at variousangles as the stallion raced away.

In the end, of course, came the whistle ofthe choking, foot-tangling ropes, and the

black was saddled. For a fierce half hourhe took punishment from bit and spur andquirt. Then, although he gave it up, it wasnot that his spirit was broken, but becausehis wind was gone. Quite passively heallowed himself to be ridden out on theprairie to where the herds were grazing.

Undeceived by this apparent docility, thecowboy, when the time came for him tobunk down under the chuck wagon for afew hours of sleep, tethered his mountquite securely to a deep-driven stake.Before the cattleman had taken more thana round dozen of winks the black hadtested his tether to the limit of his strength.The tether stood the test. A cow ponymight have done this much. There hewould have stopped. But the black was a

Kentucky thoroughbred, blessed with theinherited intelligence of noble sires, someof whom had been household pets. So heinvestigated the tether at close range.

Feeling the stake with his sensitive upperlip he discovered it to be firm as a rock.Next he backed away and wrenchedtentatively at the halter until convincedthat the throat strap was thoroughly sound.His last effort must have been aninspiration. Attacking the taut buckskinrope with his teeth he worked diligentlyuntil he had severed three of the fourstrands. Then he gathered himself foranother lunge. With a snap the rope partedand the black dashed away into the night,leaving the cowboy snoring confidently bythe camp-fire.

All night he ran, on and on in the darkness,stopping only to listen tremblingly to theecho of his own hoofs and to sniffsuspiciously at the crouching shadows ofinnocent bushes. By morning he had leftthe Bar L outfit many miles behind, andwhen the red sun rolled up over the edgeof the prairie he saw that he was alone ina field that stretched unbroken to thecircling sky-line.

Not until noon did the runaway black scentwater. Half mad with thirst he dashed tothe edge of a muddy little stream andsucked down a great draught. As he raisedhis head he saw standing poised abovehim on the opposite bank, with ears laidmenacingly flat and nostrils aquiver innervous palpitation, a buckskin-colored

stallion.

Snorting from fright the black wheeled andran. He heard behind him a shrill neigh ofchallenge and in a moment the thunder ofmany hoofs. Looking back he saw fully ascore of horses, the buckskin stallion inthe van, charging after him. That wasenough. Filling his great lungs with air heleaped into such a burst of speed that hispursuers soon tired of the hopeless chase.Finding that he was no longer followedthe black grew curious. Galloping in acircle he gradually approached the band.The horses had settled down to thecropping of buffalo grass, only thebuckskin stallion, who had taken aposition on a little knoll, remaining onguard.

The surprising thing about this band wasthat each and every member seemedriderless. Not until he had taken long up-wind sniffs was the thoroughbredconvinced of this fact. When certain onthis point he cantered toward the band,sniffing inquiringly. Again the buckskinstallion charged, ears back, eyes gleamingwickedly and snorting defiantly. This timethe black stood his ground until thebuckskin's teeth snapped savagely within afew inches of his throat. Just in time didhe rear and swerve. Twice more—for thepaddock-raised black was slow tounderstand such behavior—the buckskincharged. Then the black was roused intoaggressiveness.

There ensued such a battle as would have

brought delight to the brute soul of a Nero.With fore-feet and teeth the two stallionsengaged, circling madly about on theirhind legs, tearing up great clods of turf,biting and striking as opportunity offered.At last, by a quick, desperate rush, thebuckskin caught the thoroughbred fairly bythe throat. Here the affair would haveended had not the black stallion, rearingsuddenly on his muscle-ridged haunchesand lifting his opponent's forequartersclear of the ground, showered on hisenemy such a rain of blows from his iron-shod feet that the wild buckskin droppedto the ground, dazed and vanquished.

Standing over him, with all the fiercepride of a victorious gladiator showing inevery curve of his glistening body, the

black thoroughbred trumpeted out astentorian call of defiance and command.The band, that had watched the strugglefrom a discreet distance, now camegalloping in, whinnying in friendlyfashion.

Black Eagle had won his first fight. Hehad won the leadership. By right of mighthe was now chief of this free company ofplains rangers. It was for him to leadwhither he chose, to pick the place andhour of grazing, the time for watering, andhis to guard his companions from alldangers.

As for the buckskin stallion, thereremained for him the choice of humblyfollowing the new leader or of limping offalone to try to raise a new band. Being a

worthy descendant of the chargers whichthe men of Cortez rode so fearlessly intothe wilds of the New World he chose thelatter course, and, having regained hissenses, galloped stiffly toward the north,his bruised head lowered in defeat.

Some months later Arizona stockmenbegan to hear tales of a great band of wildhorses, led by a magnificent black stallionwhich was fleeter than a scared coyote.There came reports of much mischief.Cattle were stampeded by day, calvestrampled to death, and steers scattered farand wide over the prairie. By nightbunches of tethered cow poniesdisappeared. The exasperated cowboyscould only tell that suddenly out of thedarkness had swept down on their quiet

camps an avalanche of wild horses. Andgenerally they caught glimpses of a greatblack branded stallion who led themarauders at such a pace that he seemedalmost to fly through the air.

This stallion came to be known as BlackEagle, and to be thoroughly feared andhated from one end of the cattle country tothe other. The Bar L ranch appeared to bethe heaviest loser. Time after time wereits picketed mares run off, again and againwere the Bar L herds scattered by the dashof this mysterious band. Was it that BlackEagle could take revenge? Cattlemen havequeer notions. They put a price on hishead. It was worth six months wages toany cowboy who might kill or captureBlack Eagle.

About this time Lefty, the silent man of theBar L outfit, disappeared. Weeks went byand still the branded stallion remainedfree and unhurt, for no cow horse in all theWest could keep him in sight half an hour.

Black Eagle had been the outlaw king ofthe ranges for nearly two years when oneday, as he was standing at lookout whilethe band cropped the rich mesa grassbehind him, he saw entering the cleft endof a distant arroyo a lone cowboy mountedon a dun little pony. With quickintelligence the stallion noted that thisarroyo wound about until its mouth gaveupon the side of the mesa not a hundredyards from where he stood.

Promptly did Black Eagle act. Calling hisband he led it at a sharp pace to a

sheltered hollow on the mesa's backslope. There he left it and hurried away totake up his former position. He had notwaited long before the cowboy, ridingstealthily, reappeared at the arroyo'smouth. Instantly the race was on. Tossinghis fine head in the air and switchinghaughtily his splendid tail, Black Eaglelaid his course in a direction which tookhim away from his sheltered band.Pounding along behind came the cowboy,urging to utmost endeavor the tough littlemustang which he rode.

Had this been simply a race it would havelasted but a short time. But it was morethan a race. It was a conflict of strategists.Black Eagle wished to do more thanmerely out-distance his enemy. He meant

to lead him far away and then, under coverof night, return to his band.

Also the cowboy had a purpose. Wellknowing that he could neither overtake nortire the black stallion, he intended to ridehim down by circling. In circling, thepursuer rides toward the pursued from anangle, gradually forcing his quarry into acircular course whose diameter narrowswith every turn.

This, however, was a trick Black Eaglehad long ago learned to block. Sure of hissuperior speed he galloped away in a linestraight as an arrow's flight, paying noheed at all to the manner in which he wasfollowed. Before midnight he had rejoinedhis band, while far off on the prairie wasa lone cowboy moodily frying bacon over

a sage-brush fire.

But this pursuer was no faint heart. Latethe next day he was sighted creepingcunningly up to windward. Again therewas a race, not so long this time, for theday was far spent, but with the sameresult.

When for the third time there came intoview this same lone cowboy, Black Eaglewas thoroughly aroused to the fact that thispersistent rider meant mischief. Havingonce more led the cowboy a long andfruitless chase the great black gathered uphis band and started south. Not until noonof the next day did he halt, and then onlybecause many of the mares were in badshape. For a week the band was movedon. During intervals of rest a sharp

lookout was kept. Watering places, wherean enemy might lurk, were approachedonly after the most careful scouting.

Despite all caution, however, the cowboyfinally appeared on the horizon. Unwillingto endanger the rest of the band, andperhaps wishing a free hand in copingwith this evident Nemesis, Black Eaglecantered boldly out to meet him. Justbeyond gun range the stallion turnedsharply at right angles and sped off overthe prairie.

There followed a curious chase. Day afterday the great black led his pursuer on,stopping now and then to graze or takewater, never allowing him to cross thedanger line, but never leaving him whollyout of sight. It was a course of many

windings which Black Eagle took, nowswinging far to the west to avoid a ranch,now circling east along a water-course,again doubling back around the base of amesa, but in the main going steadilynorthward. Up past the brown Maricopasthey worked, across the turgid Gila,skirting Lone Butte desert; up, up and onuntil in the distance glistened the baldpeaks of Silver range.

Never before did a horse play such adangerous game, and surely none evershowed such finesse. Deliberately trailingbehind him an enemy bent on taking eitherhis life or freedom, not for a moment didBlack Eagle show more than imperativecaution. At the close of each day when, bya few miles of judicious galloping, he had

fully winded the cowboy's mount, thesagacious black would circle to the rearof his pursuer and often, in the gloom ofearly night, walk recklessly near to thecamp of his enemy just for the sake ofsniffing curiously. But each morning, asthe cowboy cooked his scant breakfast, hewould see, standing a few hundred rodsaway, Black Eagle, patiently waiting forthe chase to be resumed.

Day after day was the hunted black calledupon to foil a new ruse. Sometimes it wasa game of hide and seek among the buttes,and again it was an early morning sally bythe cowboy.

Once during a mid-day stop the dunmustang was turned out to graze. BlackEagle followed suit. A half mile to

windward he could see the cow pony, andbeside it, evidently sitting with his backtoward his quarry, the cowboy. For a halfhour, perhaps, all was peace and serenity.Then, as a cougar springing from his lair,there blazed out of the bushes on the bankof a dry water-course to leeward a rifleshot.

Black Eagle felt a shock that stretched himon the grass. There arrived a stinging atthe top of his right shoulder and a numbingsensation all along his backbone. Madlyhe struggled to get on his feet, but he coulddo no more than raise his fore quarters onhis knees. As he did so he saw runningtoward him from the bushes, coatless andhatless, his relentless pursuer. BlackEagle had been tricked. The figure by the

distant mustang then, was only a dummy.He had been shot from ambush. Humanstrategy had won.

With one last desperate effort, which sentthe red blood spurting from the bullet holein his shoulder, Black Eagle heavedhimself up until he sat on his haunches,braced by his fore-feet set wide apart.

Then, just as the cowboy brought his rifleinto position for the finishing shot, thestallion threw up his handsome head, hisbig eyes blazing like two stars, and lookeddefiantly at his enemy.

Slowly, steadily the cowboy took aim atthe sleek black breast behind which beatthe brave heart of the wild thoroughbred.With finger touching the trigger he glanced

over the sights and looked into those big,bold eyes. For a full minute man and horsefaced each other thus. Then the cowboy, inan uncertain, hesitating manner, loweredhis rifle. Calmly Black Eagle waited. Butthe expected shot never came. Instead, thecowboy walked cautiously toward thewounded stallion.

No move did Black Eagle make, no feardid he show. With a splendid indifferenceworthy of a martyr he sat there, paying nomore heed to his approaching enemy thanto the red stream which trickled down hisshoulder. He was helpless and knew it,but his noble courage was unshaken. Evenwhen the man came close enough toexamine the wound and pat the shiningneck that for three years had known

neither touch of hand nor bridle-rein, thegreat stallion did no more than followwith curious, steady gaze.

It is an odd fact that a feral horse, althoughwhile free even wilder and fiercer thanthose native to the prairies, when oncereturned to captivity resumes almostinstantly the traits and habits ofdomesticity. So it was with Black Eagle.With no more fuss than he would havemade when he was a colt in paddock heallowed the cowboy to wash and dress hiswounded shoulder and to lead him aboutby the halter.

By a little stream that rounded the base ofa big butte, Lefty—for it was he—madecamp, and every day for a week heapplied to Black Eagle's shoulder a fresh

poultice of pounded cactus leaves. In thattime the big stallion and the silent manburied distrust and hate and enmity. Nolonger were they captive and captor. Theycame nearer to being congenial comradesthan anything else, for in the calmsolitudes of the vast plains suchsentiments may thrive.

So, when the wound was fully healed, theblack permitted himself to be bridled andsaddled. With the cow pony following asbest it might they rode toward Santa Fé.

With Black Eagle's return to the crampedquarters of peopled places there cameexperiences entirely new to him. Everymorning he was saddled by Lefty andridden around a fence-enclosed course. Atfirst he was allowed to set his own gait,

but gradually he was urged to show hisspeed. This was puzzling but not a little tohis liking. Also he enjoyed the oats twicea day and the careful grooming after eachcanter. He became accustomed to stall lifeand to the scent and voices of men abouthim, although as yet he trusted none butLefty. Ever kind and considerate he hadfound Lefty. There were times, of course,when Black Eagle longed to be again onthe prairie at the head of his old band, butthe joy of circling the track almost madeup for the loss of those wild free dashes.

One day when Lefty took him out BlackEagle found many other horses on thetrack, while around the enclosure he sawgathered row on row of men and women.A band was playing and flags were

snapping in the breeze. There was a thrillof expectation in the air. Black Eagle feltit, and as he pranced proudly down thetrack there was lifted a murmur ofapplause and appreciation which made hisnerves tingle strangely.

Just how it all came about the big stalliondid not fully understand at the time. Heheard a bell ring sharply, heard also theshouts of men, and suddenly found himselfflying down the course in company with adozen other horses and riders. They hadfinished half the circle before Black Eaglefully realized that a gaunt, long-barrelledbay was not only leading him but gainingwith every leap. Tossing his black manein the wind, opening his bright nostrils andpointing his thin, close set ears forward he

swung into the long prairie stride whichhe was wont to use when leading his wildband. A half dozen leaps brought himabreast the gaunt bay, and then, feelingLefty's knees pressing his shoulders andhearing Lefty's voice whispering words ofencouragement in his ears, Black Eagledashed ahead to rush down through thelane of frantically shouting spectators,winner by a half dozen lengths.

That was the beginning of Black Eagle'sracing career. How it progressed, how hewon races and captured purses in aseemingly endless string of victoriesunmarred by a single defeat, that is part ofthe turf records of the South and West.

There had to be an end, of course. Ownersof carefully bred running horses took no

great pleasure, you may imagine, in seeingso many rich prizes captured by a half-wild branded stallion of no knownpedigree, and ridden by a silent, square-jawed cowboy. So they sent East for a"ringer." He came from Chicago in a box-car with two grooms and he was enteredas an unknown, although in the betting ringthe odds posted were one to five on thestranger. Yet it was a grand race. Thisalleged unknown, with a suppressedrecord of victories at Sheepshead,Bennings, and The Fort, did no more thanshove his long nose under the wire a barehalf head in front of Black Eagle's foam-flecked muzzle.

It was sufficient. The once wild stallionknew when he was beaten. He had done

his best and he had lost. His high pridehad been humbled, his fierce spiritbroken. No more did the course hold forhim any pleasure, no more could he bethrilled by the cries of spectators or urgedinto his old time stride by Lefty'swhispered appeals. Never again didBlack Eagle win a race.

His end, however, was not whollyinglorious. Much against his will thecowboy who had so relentlessly followedBlack Eagle half way across the bigterritory of Arizona to lay him low with arifle bullet, who had spared his life at thelast moment and who had ridden him tovictory in so many glorious races—thissilent, square-jawed man had given him afinal caress and then, saying a husky good-

by, had turned him over to the owner of agreat stud-farm and gone away with athick roll of bank-notes in his pocket and aguilty feeling in his breast.

Thus it happens that to-day throughout theSouthwest there are many black-pointedfleet-footed horses in whose veins runsthe blood of a noble horse. Some of themyou will find in well-guarded paddocks,while some still roam the prairies in wildbands which are the menace of stockmenand the vexation of cowboys. As for theirsire, he is no more.

This is the story of Black Eagle. Althoughsome of the minor details may be open todispute, the main points you may hearrecited by any cattleman or horse-breederwest of Omaha. For Black Eagle really

lived and, as perhaps you will agree,lived not in vain.

BONFIRE

BROKEN FOR THE HOUSEOF JERRY

I

Down in Maine or up in Vermont,anywhere, in fact, save on a fancy stud-farm, his color would have passed forsorrel. Being a high-bred hackney, and thepick of the Sir Bardolph three-year-olds,he was put down as a strawberry roan.

Also he was the pride of Lochlynne.

"'Osses, women, and the weather, sir, ain'tto be depended on; but, barrin' haccidents,that 'ere Bonfire'll fetch us a ribbon if anydoes, sir." Hawkins, the stud-groom, madethis prophecy, not in haste or out of hand,but as one who has a reputation tomaintain and who speaks by the card.

So the word was passed among the under-grooms and stable-boys that Bonfire wasthe best of the Sir Bardolph get, and thathe was going to the Garden for the honorand profit of the farm.

Well, Bonfire had come to the Garden. Hehad been there two days. It was within afew hours of the time when the hackneyswere to take the ring—and look at him!

His eyes were dull, his head was down,his nostrils wept, his legs trembled.

About his stall was gathered a little groupof discouraged men and boys who spokein low tones and gazed gloomily throughthe murky atmosphere at the blanket-swathed, hooded figure that seemed aboutto collapse on the straw.

"'E ain't got no more life in 'im than a sickcat," said one. "The Bellair folks will beatus 'oller; every one o' their bloominghentries is as fit as fiddles."

"Ain't we worked on 'im for four mortalhours?" demanded another. "Wot more canwe do?"

"Send for old 'Awkins an' tell 'im, that's

all."

A shudder seemed to shake the group inthe stall. It was clear that Mr. Hawkinswould be displeased, and that hisdispleasure was something to be dreaded.Bonfire, too, was seen to shudder, but itwas not from fear of Hawkins's wrath.Little did Bonfire care just then forgrooms, head or ordinary. He shudderedbecause of certain aches that dwelt withinhim.

In his stomach was a queer feeling whichhe did not at all understand. In his headwas a dizziness which made him wish thatthe stall would not move about so. Streaksof pain shot along his backbone and sliddown his legs. Hot and cold flashes sweptover his body. For Bonfire had a bad case

of car-sickness—a malady differing fromsea-sickness largely in name only—also awell-developed cold complicated bynervous indigestion.

Tuned to the key, he had left the homestables. Then they had led him into thatbox on wheels and the trouble had begun.Men shouted, bells clanged, whistlesshrieked. Bonfire felt the box start with ajerk, and, thumping, rumbling, jolting,swaying, move somewhere off into thenight.

In an agony of apprehension—neckstretched, eyes staring, ears pointed,nostrils quivering, legs stiffened, Bonfirewaited for the end. But of end thereseemed to be none. Shock after shockBonfire withstood, and still found himself

waiting. What it all meant he could notguess. There were the other horses thathad been taken with him into the box,some placidly munching hay, otherslooking curiously about. There were thefamiliar grooms who talked soothingly inhis ear and patted his neck in vain. Theterror of the thing, this being whirlednoisily away in a box, had struck deepinto Bonfire's brain, and he could not get itout. So he stood for many hours, neithereating nor sleeping, listening to the noises,feeling the motion, and trembling as onewith ague.

Of course it was absurd for Bonfire to goto pieces in that fashion. You can ship aMissouri Modoc around the world and hewill finish almost as sound as he started.

But Bonfire had blood and breeding and apedigree which went back to Lady Aliceof Burn Brae, Yorkshire.

His coltdom had been a sort of hothouseexistence; for Lochlynne, you know, is thetoy of a Pennsylvania coal baron, whobreeds hackneys, not for profit, but for thejoy there is in it; just as other men groworchids and build cup defenders. At theLochlynne stables they turn on the steamheat in November. On rainy days you areexercised in a glass-roofed tanbark ring,and hour after hour you are handled overdeep straw to improve your action. Youbreathe outdoor air only in high-fencedgrass paddocks around which you aredriven in surcingle rig by a Cockneygroom imported with the pigskin saddles

and British condition powders. From theday your name is written in the stud-bookuntil you leave, you have balanced feed,all-wool blankets, fly-nettings, andcoddling that never ceases. Yet this is themethod that rounds you into perfecthackney form.

All this had been done for Bonfire andwith apparent success, but a few hours ofrailroad travel had left him with a set ofnerves as tensely strung as those of a high-school girl on graduation-day. That is whya draught of cold air had chilled him to thebone; that is why, after reaching theGarden, he had gone as limp as a cut roseat a ball.

II

Hawkins, who had jumped into his clothesand hurried to the scene from a nearbyhotel, behaved disappointingly. He cursedno one, he did not even kick a stable boy.He just peeled to his undershirt and wentto work. He stripped blankets and hoodfrom the wretched Bonfire, grabbed abunch of straw in either hand and began torub. It was no chamois polishing. It was araking, scraping, rib-bending rub, appliedwith all the force in Hawkins's sinewyarms. It sent the sluggish blood poundingthrough every artery of Bonfire'scongested system and it made theperspiration ooze from the red face ofHawkins.

At the end of forty minutes' work Bonfirehalf believed he had been skinned alive.

But he had stopped trembling and he heldup his head. Next he saw Hawkins shakingsomething in a thick, long-necked bottle.Suddenly two grooms held Bonfire's jawsapart while Hawkins poured a liquiddown his throat. It was fiery stuff thatseemed to burn its way, and its immediateeffect was to revive Bonfire's appetite.

Hour after hour Hawkins worked andwatched the son of Sir Bardolph, andwhen the get-ready bell sounded heremarked:

"Now, blarst you, we'll see if you're goin'to go to heverlastin' smash in the ring.Tommy, dig out a pair o' them burrs."

Not until he reached the tanbark didBonfire understand what burrs were.

Then, as a rein was pulled, he felt ahundred sharp points pricking thesensitive skin around his mouth. With abound he leaped into the ring.

It was a very pretty sight presented to thehorse experts lining the rail and to personsin boxes and tier seats. They saw ablockily built strawberry roan, hischiselled neck arched in a perfect crest,his rigid thigh muscles rippling under ashiny coat as he swung his hocks, his slimforelegs sweeping up and out, and everycurve of his rounded body, from the tip ofhis absurd whisk-broom tail to the whitesnip on the end of his tossing nose,expressing that exuberance of spirits, thatjaunty abandon of motion which is thevery apex of hackney style. Behind him a

short-legged groom bounced through theair at the end of the reins, keeping his feetonly by means of most amazing strides.

It was a woman in one of the promenadeboxes, a young woman wearing a stunninggown and a preposterous picture-hat, whostarted the applause. Her hand-clappingwas echoed all around the rail, was takenup in the boxes and finally woke a rattlingchorus from the crowded tiers above. Thethree judges, men with whips and long-tailed coats, looked earnestly at thestrawberry roan.

Bonfire heard, too, but vaguely. Therewas a ringing in his ears. Flashes of lighthalf blinded his eyes. The concoction fromthe long-necked bottle was doing its work.Also the jaw-stinging burrs kept his mind

busy. On he danced in a mad effort toescape the pain, and only by carefulman[oe]uvring could the grooms get himto stand still long enough for the judges touse the tape.

And when it was all over, after the judgeshad grouped and regrouped the entries,compared figures and whispered in thering centre; out of sheer defiance to thepreference of the spectators they gave theblue to a chestnut filly with black points—at which the tier seats hissed mightily—and tied a red ribbon to Bonfire's bridle.Thereupon the strawberry roan, who hadlooked fit for a girthsling three hoursbefore, tossed his head and pranceddaintily out of the arena amid a ringinground of applause.

Hardly had Bonfire's docked taildisappeared before the woman in thestunning gown turned eagerly to a manbeside her and asked, "Can't I have him,Jerry? He'll be such a perfect cross-matefor Topsy. Please, now."

To be sure Jerry grumbled some, butinside of a quarter of an hour he had foundHawkins and paid the price; a priceworthy of Sir Bardolph and quite inkeeping with Lochlynne reckonings.

"'E's been car sick an' show sick," saidHawkins warningly, "an' it'll be a goodtwo weeks afore 'e's in proper condition,sir; but you'll find 'im as neat a bit of 'ossflesh as you hever owned, sir."

Nor was Hawkins wrong. When the burrs

were taken off and the effect of the dosesfrom the long-necked bottle had died out,Bonfire looked anything but a ribbon-getter. Luckily Mr. Jerry had a coachmanwho knew his business. Dan was hisname, County Antrim his birthplace. Hefed Bonfire hot mixtures, he rubbed, henursed, until he had coaxed the cold outand had quieted the jangled nerves. Then,one crisp December morning, Bonfire,once more in the pink of condition, washooked up with Topsy to the pole of ashining, rubber-tired brougham and takenaround to make the acquaintance of Mrs.Jerry.

"Oh, isn't he a beauty, Dan!" squealedMrs. Jerry delightedly, as Bonfire dancedup to the curb. "Isn't he?"

Dan, trained to silence, touched his hat.Mrs. Jerry patted Bonfire's roundedquarter, tried to rub his impatient nose andsquandered on him a bewildering varietyof superlatives. Then she was handed toher seat, the footman swung up besideDan, the reins were slackened and awaythey whirled toward the Park, stepping asif they were going over hurdles.

III

For three years Bonfire had been inleather and he had found the life fardifferent from the dull routine of coddlingthat he had known at the Lochlynne Farm.There was little monotony about it, for theJerrys were no stay-at-homes. Of his oak-

finished stable, with its sanded floors andplaited straw stall-mats, Bonfire sawalmost as little as did Mrs. Jerry of herwhite and gold rooms on the Avenue.

In the morning it would be a trip downtown, where Topsy and Bonfire wouldwait before the big stores, watching thetraffic and people, until Mrs. Jerryreappeared. After luncheon they generallytook her through the Park or up and downthe Avenue to teas and receptions. In theevening they were often harnessed againto take Mr. and Mrs. Jerry to dinner,theatre, or ball. Late at night they might beturned out to fetch them home.

What long, cold waits they had, standingin line sometimes for hours, stamping theirhoofs and shivering under heavy blankets;

for a stylish hackney, you know, must bekept closely clipped, no matter what theweather. Why, even Dan, muffled in hisbig coat and bear-skin shoulder-cape, washalf frozen. But Dan could leave thefootman on the box and go to warmhimself in the glittering corner saloons,and when he came back it would be thefootman's turn. For Topsy and Bonfirethere was no such relief. Chilled, tired,and hungry, they must stamp and wait untilat last, far down the street, could be heardthe shouting of the strong-lunged carriage-caller. When Dan got his number theywere quite ready for the homeward dash.

Seeing them come down the street, headstossing, pole-chains jingling, the crest andmonogram of the house of Jerry glistening

on quarter cloth and rosette, their polishedhoofs seeming barely to touch the asphalt,you might have thought their lot one to beenvied. But Bonfire and Topsy knewbetter.

It was altogether too heavy work for high-bred hackneys, of course. Mr. Jerrypointed this out, but to no use. Mrs. Jerryasked pertinently what good horses werefor if not to be used. No, she wanted nolivery teams for the night work. When sherode she wished to ride behind Topsy andBonfire. They were her horses, anyway.She would do as she pleased. And shedid.

Summer brought neither rest nor relief.Early in July horses, servants, andcarriages would be shipped off to

Newport or Saratoga, there to begin againthe unceasing whirl. And fly time, to adocktailed horse, is a season of torment.

Of Mrs. Jerry, who had once roused theGarden for his sake, Bonfire caught butglimpses. After that first day, when he wasa novelty, he heard no more compliments,received no more pats from her glovedhands. But of slight or neglect Bonfireknew nothing. He curved his neck andthrew his hoofs high, whether his musclesached or no; in winter he stamped to keepwarm, in summer to dislodge the flies; hedid his work faithfully, early or late, incold and in heat; and all this because hewas a son of Sir Bardolph and for thereason that it was his nature to. Had itbeen put upon him he would have worked

in harness until he dropped, prancing hisbest to the last.

No supreme test, however, was everbrought to the endurance and willingnessof Bonfire. They just kept him on the pole,nerves tense, muscles strained, until hebegan to lose form. His action no longerhad that grace and abandon which sopleased Mrs. Jerry when she first sawhim. Long standing in the cold numbs themuscles. It robs the legs of their spring.Sudden starts, such as are made when youare called from line after an hour'swaiting, finish the business. Try as hemight, Bonfire could not step so high,could not carry a perfect crest. His neckhad lost its roundness, in his rump acrease had appeared.

To Dan also, came tribulation of his ownmaking. He carried a flat brown flaskunder the box and there were times whenhis driving was more a matter of muscularhabit than of mental acuteness. Twice hewas threatened with discharge and twicehe solemnly promised reform. At last theinevitable happened. Dan came onemorning to Bonfire's stall, very sober andvery sad. He patted Bonfire and saidgood-by. Then he disappeared.

Less than a week later two younghackneys, plump of neck, round of quarter,springy of knee and hock, were brought tothe stable. Bonfire and Topsy were led outof their old stalls to return no more. Theyhad been worn out in the service and castaside like a pair of old gloves.

Then did Bonfire enter upon a period ofexistence in which box-stalls, crestedquarter blankets, rubber-tired wheels andliveried drivers had no part. It was avaried existence, filled with toil andhardship and abuse; an existence forwhich the coddling one gets at LochlynneFarm is no fit preparation.

IV

Just where Broadway crosses SixthAvenue at Thirty-third Street is to befound a dingy, triangular little park plot inwhich a few gas-stunted, smoke-stainedtrees make a brave attempt to keep alive.On two sides of the triangle surface-carswhirl restlessly, while overhead the

elevated trains rattle and shriek. This partof the metropolis knows little differencebetween day and night, for the cars nevercease, the arc-lights blaze from dusk untildawn and the pavements are never whollyempty.

Locally the section is sometimes called"the Cabman's Graveyard." During anyhour of the twenty-four you may findwaiting along the curb a line of publiccarriages. By day you will sometimes seesmartly kept hansoms, well-groomedhorses, and drivers in neat livery.

But at night the character of the linechanges. The carriages are mostly one-horse closed cabs, rickety as to wheels,with torn and faded cushions, licensenumbers obscured by various devices and

rate-cards always missing. The horses aredilapidated, too; and the drivers, whomyou will generally find nodding on the boxor sound asleep inside their cabs,harmonize with their rigs.

These are the Nighthawkers of theTenderloin. The name is not an assuringone, but it is suspected that it has beenaptly given.

One bleak midnight in late November acab of this description waited in the lee ofthe elevated stairs. The cab itself wasweather-beaten, scratched, and battered.The driver, who sat half inside and halfoutside the vehicle, with his feet on thesidewalk and his back propped against theseat-cushion, puffed a short pipe andwatched with indolent but discriminating

eye those who passed. He wore acoachman's coat of faded green whichseemed to have acquired a stain for everybutton it had lost. On his head sat jauntilya rusty beaver and his face, especially thenose, was of a rich crimson hue.

The horse, that seemed to lean on ratherthan stand in the patched shafts, showedmany well-defined points and but fewcurves. His thin neck was ewed, therewere deep hollows over the eyes, thenumber of his ribs was revealed withstartling frankness and the sagging of onehind-quarter betrayed a bad leg. His headhe held in spiritless fashion on a levelwith his knees. As if to add a note ofirony, his tail had been docked to theregulation of absurd brevity and served

only to tag him as one fallen from a morereputable state.

Suddenly, up and across the intersectingthoroughfares, with a sharp clatter ofhoofs, rolled a smart closed brougham.The dispirited bobtail looked up as awell-mated pair pranced past. Perhaps henoted their sleek quarters, the glitteringtrappings on their backs and their gingeryaction. As he dropped his head againsomething very like a sigh escaped him. Itmight have been regret, perhaps it wasonly a touch of influenza.

The driver, too, saw the turnout and gazedafter it. But he did not sigh. He puffedaway at his pipe as if entirely satisfiedwith his lot. He was still watching thebrougham when a surface-car came

gliding swiftly around a curve. There wasa smash of splintering wood and breakingglass. The car had struck the brougham abattering-ram blow, crushing a rear wheeland snapping the steel axle at the hub.

From somewhere or other a crowd ofcurious persons appeared and circledabout to watch while the driver held theplunging horses and the footman hauledfrom the overturned carriage a man and awoman in evening dress. The coupleseemed unhurt and, although somewhatrumpled as to attire, remarkablyunconcerned.

"Keb, sir! Have a keb, sir?"

The Nighthawker was on the scene, like alongshore wrecker, and waving an inviting

arm toward his shabby vehicle.

The man coolly restored to shape hismisused opera hat, adjusted his necktie,whispered some orders to his coachmanand then asked of the Nighthawker:"Where's your carriage, my man?"

Eagerly the green-coated cabby led theway until the rescued couple stood beforeit. The woman inspected the batteredvehicle doubtfully before stepping inside.The man eyed the sorry nag for a momentand then said, with a laugh: "Good frameyou have there; got the parts allnumbered?"

But the Nighthawker was not sensitive.The intimation that his horse might fallapart he answered only with a good-

natured chuckle and asked: "Where shall itbe; home, sir?"

"Why, yes, drive us to number——"

"Oh, we know the house well enough, sir,Bonfire and me."

"Bonfire! Bonfire, did you say?"Incredulously the fare looked first at thehorse and then at the driver. "Why, 'ponmy word, it's old Dan! And this relic inthe shafts is Bonfire, is it?"

"It's him, sir; leastways, all there's left ofhim."

"Well, I'll be hanged! Kitty! Kitty!" heshouted into the cab where my lady wasnervously pulling her skirts closer abouther and sniffing the tobacco-laden

atmosphere with evident disapproval."Here's Dan, our old coachman."

"Really?" was the unenthusiastic replyfrom the cab.

"Yes, and he's driving Bonfire. Youremember Bonfire, the hackney I boughtfor you at the Garden the year we weremarried."

"Indeed? Why, how odd? But do come in,Jerry, and let's get on home. I'm so-o-o-otired."

Mr. Jerry stifled his sentiment and shut thecab-door with a bang. Dan pulledBonfire's head into position and lightlylaid the whip over the all too obviousribs. Bonfire, his head bobbing

ludicrously on his thin neck and his stubbytail keeping time at the other end of him,moved uncertainly up the avenue at a jerkyhobble.

And there let us leave him. Poor oldBonfire! Bred to win a ribbon at theGarden—ended as the drudge of aTenderloin Nighthawker.

PASHA

THE SON OF SELIM

Long, far too long, has the story of Pasha,son of Selim, remained untold.

The great Selim, you know, was broughtfrom far across the seas, where he hadbeen sold for a heavy purse by avenerable sheik, who tore his beardduring the bargain and swore by Allah thatwithout Selim there would be for him nojoy in life. Also he had wept quiteconvincingly on Selim's neck—but he

finished by taking the heavy purse. Thatwas how Selim, the great Selim, came toend his days in Fayette County, Kentucky.Of his many sons, Pasha was one.

In almost idyllic manner were spent theyears of Pasha's coltdom. They were yearsof pasture roaming and bluegrasscropping. When the time was ripe, beganthe hunting lessons. Pasha came to knowthe feel of the saddle and the voice of thehounds. He was taught the long, easy lope.He learned how to gather himself for asail through the air over a hurdle or awater-jump. Then, when he could takefive bars clean, when he could clear aneight-foot ditch, when his wind was sosound that he could lead the chase fromdawn until high noon, he was sent to the

stables of a Virginia tobacco-planter whohad need of a new hunter and who couldafford Arab blood.

In the stalls at Gray Oaks stables weremany good hunters, but none better thanPasha. Cream-white he was, from the tipof his splendid, yard-long tail to his pink-lipped muzzle. His coat was as silk plush,his neck as supple as a swan's, and out ofhis big, bright eyes there looked suchintelligence that one half expected him tospeak. His lines were all long, gracefulcurves, and when he danced daintily onhis slender legs one could see the musclesflex under the delicate skin.

Miss Lou claimed Pasha for her very ownat first sight. As no one at Gray Oaksdenied Miss Lou anything at all, to her he

belonged from that instant. Of Miss Lou,Pasha approved thoroughly. She knew thatbridle-reins were for gentle guidance, notfor sawing or jerking, and that a riding-crop was of no use whatever save tounlatch a gate or to cut at an unruly hound.She knew how to rise on the stirrup whenPasha lifted himself in his stride, and howto settle close to the pigskin when hishoofs hit the ground. In other words, shehad a good seat, which means as much tothe horse as it does to the rider.

Besides all this, it was Miss Lou whoinsisted that Pasha should have the best ofgrooming, and she never forgot to bringthe dainties which Pasha loved, an appleor a carrot or a sugar-plum. It issomething, too, to have your nose patted

by a soft gloved hand and to have such aperson as Miss Lou put her arm aroundyour neck and whisper in your ear. Fromno other than Miss Lou would Pashapermit such intimacy.

No paragon, however, was Pasha. He hada temper, and his whims were as many asthose of a school-girl. He was particularas to who put on his bridle. He hadnotions concerning the manner in which acurry-comb should be used. A red ribbonor a bandanna handkerchief put him in arage, while green, the holy color of theMohammedan, soothed his nerves. Alively pair of heels he had, and he knewhow to use his teeth. The black stable-boys found that out, and so did the stern-faced man who was known as "Mars"

Clayton. This "Mars" Clayton had riddenPasha once, had ridden him as he rode hisbig, ugly, hard-bitted roan hunter, andPasha had not enjoyed the ride. Still, MissLou and Pasha often rode out with "Mars"Clayton and the parrot-nosed roan. Thatis, they did until the coming of Mr. Dave.

In Mr. Dave, Pasha found a new friend.From a far Northern State was Mr. Dave.He had come in a ship to buy tobacco, butafter he had bought his cargo he stillstayed at Gray Oaks, "to complete Pasha'seducation," so he said.

Many ways had Mr. Dave which Pashaliked. He had a gentle manner of talking toyou, of smoothing your flanks and rubbingyour ears, which gained your confidenceand made you sure that he understood. He

was firm and sure in giving commands, yetso patient in teaching one tricks, that itwas a pleasure to learn.

So, almost before Pasha knew it, he couldstand on his hind legs, could step aroundin a circle in time to a tune which Mr.Dave whistled, and could do other thingswhich few horses ever learn to do. Hischief accomplishment, however, was tokneel on his forelegs in the attitude ofprayer. A long time it took Pasha to learnthis, but Mr. Dave told him over and overagain, by word and sign, until at last theson of the great Selim could strike a posesuch as would have done credit to aMecca pilgrim.

"It's simply wonderful!" declared MissLou.

But it was nothing of the sort. Mr. Davehad been teaching tricks to horses eversince he was a small boy, and never hadhe found such an apt pupil as Pasha.

Many a glorious gallop did Pasha andMiss Lou have while Mr. Dave stayed atGray Oaks, Dave riding the big baygelding that Miss Lou, with all her daring,had never ventured to mount. It was not allgalloping though, for Pasha and the bigbay often walked for miles through thewood lanes, side by side and very closetogether, while Miss Lou and Mr. Davetalked, talked, talked. How they couldever find so much to say to each otherPasha wondered.

But at last Mr. Dave went away, and withhis going ended good times for Pasha, at

least for many months. There followedstrange doings. There was muchexcitement among the stable-boys, muchriding about, day and night, by the men ofGray Oaks, and no hunting at all. One daythe stables were cleared of all horses savePasha.

"Some time, if he is needed badly, youmay have Pasha, but not now," Miss Louhad said. And then she had hidden her facein his cream-white mane and sobbed. Justwhat the trouble was Pasha did notunderstand, but he was certain "Mars"Clayton was at the bottom of it.

No longer did Miss Lou ride about thecountry. Occasionally she galloped up anddown the highway, to the Pointdexters andback, just to let Pasha stretch his legs.

Queer sights Pasha saw on these trips.Sometimes he would pass many men onhorses riding close together in a pack, asthe hounds run when they have the scent.They wore strange clothing, did thesemen, and they carried, instead of riding-crops, big shiny knives that swung at theirsides. The sight of them set Pasha's nervestingling. He would sniff curiously afterthem and then prick forward his ears anddance nervously.

Of course Pasha knew that somethingunusual was going on, but what it was hecould not guess. There came a time,however, when he found out all about it.Months had passed when, late one night, ahard-breathing, foam-splotched, mud-covered horse was ridden into the yard

and taken into the almost deserted stable.Pasha heard the harsh voice of "Mars"Clayton swearing at the stable-boys.Pasha heard his own name spoken, andguessed that it was he who was wanted.Next came Miss Lou to the stable.

"I'm very sorry," he heard "Mars" Claytonsay, "but I've got to get out of this. TheYanks are not more than five milesbehind."

"But you'll take good care of him, won'tyou?" he heard Miss Lou ask eagerly.

"Oh, yes; of course," replied "Mars"Clayton, carelessly.

A heavy saddle was thrown on Pasha'sback, the girths pulled cruelly tight, and in

a moment "Mars" Clayton was on hisback. They were barely clear of GrayOaks driveway before Pasha feltsomething he had never known before. Itwas as if someone had jabbed a lot oflittle knives into his ribs. Roused by painand fright, Pasha reared in a wild attemptto unseat this hateful rider. But "Mars"Clayton's knees seemed glued to Pasha'sshoulders. Next Pasha tried to shake himoff by sudden leaps, side-bolts, and stiff-legged jumps. These man[oe]uvresbrought vicious jerks on the wicked chain-bit that was cutting Pasha's tender mouthsorrily and more jabs from the littleknives. In this way did Pasha fight untilhis sides ran with blood and his breastwas plastered thick with reddened foam.

In the meantime he had covered miles ofroad, and at last, along in the cold gray ofthe morning, he was ridden into a fieldwhere were many tents and horses. Pashawas unsaddled and picketed to a stake.This latter indignity he was too muchexhausted to resent. All he could do wasto stand, shivering with cold, tremblingfrom nervous excitement, and wait forwhat was to happen next.

It seemed ages before anything didhappen. The beginning was a trippingbugle-blast. This was answered by thevoice of other bugles blown here andthere about the field. In a moment menbegan to tumble out of the white tents.They came by twos and threes and dozens,until the field was full of them. Fires were

built on the ground, and soon Pasha couldscent coffee boiling and bacon frying.Black boys began moving about among thehorses with hay and oats and water. Oneof them rubbed Pasha hurriedly with awisp of straw. It was little like thecurrying and rubbing with brush and comband flannel to which he was accustomedand which he needed just then, oh, howsadly. His strained muscles had stiffenedso much that every movement gave himpain. So matted was his coat with sweatand foam and mud that it seemed as if halfthe pores of his skin were choked.

He had cooled his parched throat with along draught of somewhat muddy water,but he had eaten only half of the armful ofhay when again the bugles sounded and

"Mars" Clayton appeared. Tightening thegirths, until they almost cut into Pasha'stender skin, he jumped into the saddle androde off to where a lot of big black horseswere being reined into line. In front of thisline Pasha was wheeled. He heard thebugles sound once more, heard his ridershout something to the men behind, felt thewicked little knives in his sides, and then,in spite of aching legs, was forced into asharp gallop. Although he knew it not,Pasha had joined the Black HorseCavalry.

The months that followed were to Pashaone long, ugly dream. Not that he mindedthe hard riding by day and night. In time hebecame used to all that. He could evenendure the irregular feeding, the sleeping

in the open during all kinds of weather,and the lack of proper grooming. But thevicious jerks on the torture-provokingcavalry bit, the flat sabre blows on theflank which he not infrequently got fromhis ill-tempered master, and, above all,the cruel digs of the spur-wheels—thesethings he could not understand. Suchtreatment he was sure he did not merit."Mars" Clayton he came to hate more andmore. Some day, Pasha told himself, hewould take vengeance with teeth andheels, even if he died for it.

In the meantime he had learned the cavalrydrill. He came to know the meaning ofeach varying bugle-call, from reveille,when one began to paw and stamp forbreakfast, to mournful taps, when lights

went out, and the tents became dark andsilent. Also, one learned to slow from agallop into a walk; when to wheel to theright or to the left, and when to start on thejump as the first notes of a charge weresounded. It was better to learn the bugle-calls, he found, than to wait for a jerk onthe bits or a prod from the spurs.

No more was he terror-stricken, as he hadbeen on his first day in the cavalry, athearing behind him the thunder of manyhoofs. Having once become used to thenoise, he was even thrilled by theswinging metre of it. A kind of wildharmony was in it, something which madeone forget everything else. At such timesPasha longed to break into his long, wind-splitting lope, but he learned that he must

leave the others no more than a pace ortwo behind, although he could have easilyoutdistanced them all.

Also, Pasha learned to stand under fire.No more did he dance at the crack ofcarbines or the zipp-zipp of bullets. Hecould even hold his ground when shellswent screaming over him, although thiswas hardest of all to bear. One could notsee them, but their sound, like that of greatbirds in flight, was something to try one'snerves. Pasha strained his ears to catch thenote of each shell that came whizzingoverhead, and, as it passed, lookedinquiringly over his shoulder as if to ask,"Now what on earth was that?"

But all this experience could not preparehim for the happenings of that never-to-be-

forgotten day in June. There had been aperiod full of hard riding and ending witha long halt. For several days hay and oatswere brought with some regularity. Pashawas even provided with an apology for astall. It was made by leaning two railsagainst a fence. Some hay was thrownbetween the rails. This was a sorrysubstitute for the roomy box-stall, filledwith clean straw, which Pasha always hadat Gray Oaks, but it was as good as anyprovided for the Black Horse Cavalry.

And how many, many horses there were!As far as Pasha could see in eitherdirection the line extended. Never beforehad he seen so many horses at one time.And men! The fields and woods were fullof them; some in brown butternut, some in

homespun gray, and many in clotheshaving no uniformity of color at all."Mars" Clayton was dressed better thanmost, for on his butternut coat were shinyshoulder-straps, and it was closed withshiny buttons. Pasha took little pride inthis. He knew his master for a cruel andheartless rider, and for nothing more.

One day there was a great parade, whenPasha was carefully groomed for the firsttime in months. There were bands playingand flags flying. Pasha, forgetful of his ill-treatment and prancing proudly at the headof a squadron of coal-black horses,passed in review before a big, beardedman wearing a slouch hat fantasticallydecorated with long plumes and sitting agreat black horse in the midst of a little

knot of officers.

Early the next morning Pasha wasawakened by the distant growl of heavyguns. By daylight he was on the move,thousands of other horses with him.Nearer and nearer they rode to the placewhere the guns were growling. Sometimesthey were on roads, sometimes theycrossed fields, and again they plunged intothe woods where the low branches struckone's eyes and scratched one's flanks. Atlast they broke clear of the trees to comesuddenly upon such a scene as Pasha hadnever before witnessed.

Far across the open field he could seetroop on troop of horses coming towardhim. They seemed to be pouring over thecrest of a low hill, as if driven onward by

some unseen force behind. Instantly Pashaheard, rising from the throats of thousandsof riders, on either side and behind him,that fierce, wild yell which he had cometo know meant the approach of trouble.High and shrill and menacing it rang as itwas taken up and repeated by those in therear. Next the bugles began to sound, andin quick obedience the horses formed inline just on the edge of the woods, a linewhich stretched and stretched on eitherflank until one could hardly see where itended.

From the distant line came no answeringcry, but Pasha could hear the buglesblowing and he could see the frontsmassing. Then came the order to charge ata gallop. This set Pasha to tugging eagerly

at the bit, but for what reason he did notknow. He knew only that he was part of agreat and solid line of men and horsessweeping furiously across a field towardthat other line which he had seen pouringover the hill-crest.

He could scarcely see at all now. Thethousands of hoofs had raised a cloud ofdust that not only enveloped the onrushingline, but rolled before it. Nor could Pashahear anything save the thunderous thud ofmany feet. Even the shrieking of the shellswas drowned. But for the restraining bitPasha would have leaped forward andcleared the line. Never had he been sostirred. The inherited memory of countlessdesert raids, made by his Arab ancestors,was doing its work. For what seemed a

long time this continued, and then, in themidst of the blind and frenzied race, thereloomed out of the thick air, as if it hadappeared by magic, the opposing line.

Pasha caught a glimpse of somethingwhich seemed like a heaving wall oftossing heads and of foam-whitened necksand shoulders. Here and there gleamedred, distended nostrils and straining eyes.Bending above was another wall, a wallof dusty blue coats, of grim faces, and ofdust-powdered hats. Bristling above allwas a threatening crest of waving blades.

What would happen when the lines met?Almost before the query was thought therecame the answer. With an earth-jarringcrash they came together. The lineswavered back from the shock of impact

and then the whole struggle appeared toPasha to centre about him. Of course thiswas not so. But it was a fact that the mostconspicuous figure in either line had beenthat of the cream-white charger in the verycentre of the Black Horse regiment.

For one confused moment Pasha heardabout his ears the whistle and clash ofsabres, the spiteful crackle of small arms,the snorting of horses, and the cries ofmen. For an instant he was wedged tightlyin the frenzied mass, and then, by onedesperate leap, such as he had learned onthe hunting field, he shook himself clear.

Not until some minutes later did Pashanotice that the stirrups were danglingempty and that the bridle-rein hung looseon his neck. Then he knew that at last he

was free from "Mars" Clayton. At thesame time he felt himself seized by anoverpowering dread. While conscious ofa guiding hand on the reins Pasha hadabandoned himself to the fierce joy of thecharge. But now, finding himself riderlessin the midst of a horrid din, he knew notwhat to do, nor which way to turn. Hisonly impulse was to escape. But where?Lifting high his fine head and snorting withterror he rushed about, first this way andthen that, frantically seeking a way out ofthis fog-filled field of dreadfulpandemonium. Now he swerved in hiscourse to avoid a charging squad, now hewas turned aside by prone objects at sightof which he snorted fearfully. Although theblades still rang and the carbines stillspoke, there were no more to be seen

either lines or order. Here and there in thedust-clouds scurried horses, some withriders and some without, by twos, byfours, or in squads of twenty or more. Thesound of shooting and slashing andshouting filled the air.

To Pasha it seemed an eternity that he hadbeen tearing about the field when he shiedat the figure of a man sitting on the ground.Pasha was about to wheel and dash awaywhen the man called to him. Surely thetones were familiar. With wide-open,sniffing nostrils and trembling knees,Pasha stopped and looked hard at the manon the ground.

"Pasha! Pasha!" the man called weakly.The voice sounded like that of Mr. Dave.

"Come, boy! Come, boy!" said the man ina coaxing tone, which recalled to Pashathe lessons he had learned at Gray Oaksyears before. Still Pasha sniffed andhesitated.

"Come here, Pasha, old fellow. For God'ssake, come here!"

There was no resisting this appeal. Stepby step Pasha went nearer. He continuedto tremble, for this man on the ground,although his voice was that of Mr. Dave,looked much different from the one whohad taught him tricks. Besides, there wasabout him the scent of fresh blood. Pashacould see the stain of it on his bluetrousers.

"Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the

man on the ground, holding out anencouraging hand. Slowly Pasha obeyeduntil he could sniff the man's fingers.Another step and the man was smoothinghis nose, still speaking gently andcoaxingly in a faint voice. In the end Pashawas assured that the man was really theMr. Dave of old, and glad enough Pashawas to know it.

"Now, Pasha," said Mr. Dave, "we'll seeif you've forgotten your tricks, and may thegood Lord grant you haven't. Down, sir!Kneel, Pasha, kneel!"

"Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the man on the ground.

It had been a long time since Pasha hadbeen asked to do this, a very long time; buthere was Mr. Dave asking him, in just thesame tone as of old, and in just the sameway. So Pasha, forgetting his terror underthe soothing spell of Mr. Dave's voice,forgetting the fearful sights and soundsabout him, remembering only that herewas the Mr. Dave whom he loved, askinghim to do his old trick—well, Pasha knelt.

"Easy now, boy; steady!" Pasha heard himsay. Mr. Dave was dragging himself alongthe ground to Pasha's side. "Steady now,Pasha; steady, boy!" He felt Mr. Dave'shand on the pommel. "So-o-o, boy; so-o-

o-o!" Slowly, oh, so slowly, he felt Mr.Dave crawling into the saddle, andalthough Pasha's knees ached from theunfamiliar strain, he stirred not a muscleuntil he got the command, "Up, Pasha, up!"

Then, with a trusted hand on the bridle-rein, Pasha joyfully bounded away throughthe fog, until the battle-field was leftbehind. Of the long ride that ensued onlyPasha knows, for Mr. Dave kept his seatin the saddle more by force of muscularhabit than anything else. A man who haslearned to sleep on horseback does noteasily fall off, even though he has not thefull command of his senses. Only for thefirst hour or so did Pasha's rider do muchtoward guiding their course. In hunting-horses, however, the sense of direction is

strong. Pasha had it—especially for onepoint of the compass. This point wassouth. So, unknowing of the possible perilinto which he might be taking his rider,south he went. How Pasha ever did it, as Ihave said, only Pasha knows; but in theend he struck the Richmond Pike.

Mr. Dave kept his seat in the saddle more by force ofmuscular habit than anything else.

It was a pleading whinny which arousedMiss Lou at early daybreak. Under herwindow she saw Pasha, and on his back alimp figure in a blue, dust-covered, dark-stained uniform. And that was howPasha's cavalry career came to an end.That one fierce charge was his last.

In the Washington home of a certain MaineCongressman you may see, hung in a placeof honor and lavishly framed, the pictureof a horse. It is very creditably done inoils, is this picture. It is of a cream-whitehorse, with an arched neck, clean, slim

legs, and a splendid flowing tail.

Should you have any favors of state to askof this Maine Congressman, it would bethe wise thing, before stating your request,to say something nice about the horse inthe picture. Then the Congressman willprobably say, looking fondly at thepicture: "I must tell Lou—er—my wife,you know, what you have said. Yes, thatwas Pasha. He saved my neck at BrandyStation. He was one-half Arab, Pashawas, and the other half, sir, was human."

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